


Shackled By The Throat

by KuVhalla



Series: Tassel [4]
Category: The Dark Crystal (1982), The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (TV)
Genre: Even more plot to spice up the porn, F/M, Fingerfucking, NSFW, Oral Sex, Reader Insert, Smut, That's the smut tags so far I'll update them as I go, canon short skeksis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:21:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29491980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuVhalla/pseuds/KuVhalla
Summary: You end up once again as a piece of a bigger game between the Emperor and the Chamberlain. This time, however, there is a secondary alliance not too happy with your insistence on remaining alive.SkekSo knows this, and he doesn't give a fuck. SkekSil doesn't, not quite, but he has bigger problems at the moment.You are insulted, and decide to play the hard game with the Chamberlain until things go south.
Relationships: skekSil (Dark Crystal)/Reader
Series: Tassel [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008813
Comments: 23
Kudos: 18





	1. Incandescent Coals

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a hot minute since I posted in these series but I'm back. This one will be a multi-chapter kind of deal, not another behemoth of an one-shot like I usually do so buckle up!

From your time in the castle, you had easily come to the conclusion that you cared little for gelfling and their agenda. Little as they were, they trotted about, clad in their leathery armour, tiny hands clasping their toothpick-like swords, their steps and voices surprisingly loud for creatures that barely reached your hip. Whenever their huge eyes caught sight of you they would widen, and very few of them did not flinch in your presence, most of them immediately gripping their weapons as they saw you round a corner unexpectedly. It made you laugh every single time.

Typically, you were spared their complacence, grateful for the limited number of them, mainly the quietest of guards, who were allowed in the private areas of the Castle of the Crystal. Considering how ample the space was, not only customized to fit the skeksis’ taller size but also their fatuous, endless needs for decadence, it was even a bigger challenge to spot the diminutive, elf-like creatures.

The company you usually kept was also skeksis in nature more often than not, excusing the podling servants, and you rarely strayed from the Emperor’s or the Chamberlain’s side if not to dawdle in the unkempt gardens, not wanting to risk running into any Lords who disapproved of your silly fixation to remaining alive. Surprisingly, they had grown in number with time, despite how hard you tried to avoid even breathing in their presence –namely, in front of the Ritual Master and the Gourmand.

Not only you did not want to partake in the skeksis constant bickering, but you were frequently caught in the middle or being the reason for it. Were the Lord in charge of your safety compassionate, you would have been spared the shrieks with the ease one dismisses a podling. Yet, that Lord happened to be the Chamberlain, which meant, instead of protected, you were a tool for his mischief seven days a week.

On the other hand, no matter how troublesome was dealing with the skeksis, it was better than sitting idly to twiddle your thumbs. What would you do if the Lords were to leave you to your devices, sit and watch paint dry? Patrol with the gelfling? You were much better knowing the ins and outs of the castle and its inhabitants, even if you had to do it as a servant.

Besides, gelfling were utterly boring creatures, in your opinion. Blinded by their adoration to the skeksis and meek in any other department, the conversations you overhead from them in the kitchens was, on a good day, asinine at best. Used to loud squabbles and petty remarks and world-shaking provocations from the Lords of the Crystal, whatever discussions and problems plagued the gelfling in the castle, they were quickly brushed aside, thus feeding your need for entertainment none.

If you wanted gruesome spectacle, you could have it at your heart’s content in the throne room where the Emperor held Court. From your seat at his feet, his clawed hand covered in heavy, jewelled rings resting on your head like the pet he considered you to be, you had the most privileged view to witness the new ways the skeksis came up with to mess with each other in these times of irksome peace.

One thing you reluctantly admired from the Emperor was his pretence to be, usually, if not a peacemaker, at least a peacekeeper, in the sense that he never when out of his way to cause trouble for his subjects. If the trouble came to him already in the making, however, who was he to not give it a good stir.

Only in the last week you had seen the Lords squabble about the most frivolous things three times, the grudge not being ignited by the Chamberlain and his pathologic need for attention but by the Ornamentalist. Still out of favour with SkekSil for keeping the Ritual Master’s secret gelfling harem from him, SkekEkt had tried to find a way to make rumours happen on his own, obviously hungry for drama and not willing to wait for it to happen on its own. Right before your very eyes, he had goaded first the Scroll Keeper against the Scientist, hoping for blood, and seeing how neither of them cared for meaningless gossip, turned SkekOk against the Collector instead, which proved to be a much more successful endeavour. The yelling lasted for days and you still found splotches of mucus on the walls where a particularly nasty fit had got the best from SkekLach.

Now, knees going numb from the painful position at the Emperor’s feet, his metallic and foreign scent fresh in your nostrils due to his closeness, you watched with greedy impatience how the Chamberlain did what he did best, your expectations for a good show higher than the roof.

With your mind sluggish from sleep, you had watched him dress to his nines in the morning, humming a chipper tune as he layered robes upon robes on his scrawny yet fat figure, his tail wagging with so much excitement it swept the floor. The Chamberlain never got out of the bed willingly if he could help it; in fact, you had caught him waking up earlier than it was due just so he could dally under the sheets further, relishing the feeling of laziness a bit longer. His rising made you suspicious, but you had chosen to say nothing, knowing he wouldn’t reveal a thing no matter how much you prodded if he wished to keep his motives secret. Yet, as you had bid him temporary goodbyes when you separated for the first meal of the day, you had seen his intelligent eyes twinkle, the grin on his beak barely contained, the promise for arson and mayhem pending in the air like a dangling sword.

He had reeked of bemusement and malignance and evil deeds and now, with the whole skeksis Court as his wanting audience, you knew SkekSil was ready to cross every “t” and dot every “i”. At times like this you could see how he basked in the attention, how much he loved and preened when others knew he was about to pull a trick so clever they would have no choice but to praise him; the expectation always made him rise to the occasion and leave victorious.

Not that you held any particular rancour towards the majority of the skeksis population in castle but seeing the cruel Lords dragged to the floor by SkekSil and his unmatchable wit was certainly one of the few pleasures of your day-to-day life. The Chamberlain did not take no prisoners.

You wiggled on your spot, barely uncontained until the Emperor’s hand tightened on you scalp, an almost imperceptible pressure, to remind you of your position and the manners that came with it. On your left, at the Ritual Master’s side, very much ignoring the Chamberlain’s showman-y disposition, stood the Lord General, SkekSil’s chosen target. _Stood_ for a lack of a better word, as in truth SkekVar was nothing but seething and growling and trying to keep his composed façade up despite the taints of the merry SkekSil, who was the perfect portrait of good-natured disposition and fair play.

SkekVar had, as of late, stormed into the throne room with heavy steps, his shoulders squared and his beak twisted in a stubborn expression, visibly peeved no matter how early in the day it might had been. Something troubled him, and the General lacked the habit of concealing his emotions behind a cloak of cynicism like the other skeksis did, thus you could read him like an open book.

Feeling his anger simmer, barely uncontained as his explosive temper was, SkekVar was ready to fight once again, from morning to dawn, ready to go neck to neck against the Chamberlain; the Court, instead of growing weary of the constant confrontation, fed off it, spurring the bad blood between them with literal cheers whenever a barb sharp enough was made.

“General comes up with great idea, yes,” repeated the Chamberlain for the umpteenth time, bowing in blatant disrespect to the bulky figure of the General.

The Emperor’s claw twitched in your hair, maybe in irritation, maybe in mockery, and his bejewelled tail made his robes swish as it stirred behind you; he was growing fidgety, impatient for the endgame. The Chamberlain had been playing this game of showering SkekVar with compliments instead of biting back for an unum and a half now, buttering him up for whatever reason he had not bothered to share with you. The expectations for the other shoe to drop built up every day among the Lords as they watched and waited, their amusement and snickers loud and evident for everyone but for the one being fooled.

“Yet you insist on your tame advances. What should happen next, bowing to the Maudras as if we were worshippers of theirs?” The skeksis Court rattled indignantly, the golden and silver chains adorning their outfits jiggling in outrage.

“Rather use violence to smooth wrinkles up here,” sang SkekSil, tapping his temple, “than listen to Chamberlain’s words of peace.”

You heard SkekSo snort loudly behind you, and you had to disguise your own laugh with a cough. The other witnesses were not so polite, the Scroll Keeper and the Scientist guffawing with fierce gusto and clinging to each other to keep upright as the rudest of the lot.

“I maintain your words are ridiculous!” the General grunted in a booming voice, as flustered as someone with his visage could look, and his beady eyes quickly skipped to look at the Emperor for either approval or solace, but SkekSo only caressed the metal coved over his beak and remained quiet in sardonic contemplation, refusing to reveal his thoughts on the matter. The General brisked but turned, now even angrier, to glare daggers into the Chamberlain’s swaying form. “It would be just as easy, and even quicker, to get rid of the All-Maudra and their kind.”

There was a round of agreeing expletives, the bellicose nature of the skeksis taking over reason for a moment, which made the General puff his chest in pride, the plates of his armour clinking, but he deflated as soon as the Chamberlain made another jibe at his forwardness and lack of brightness.

“Easier, yes. Gratification would be instant, too. Dear General is like childling, wants everything now, now! Can’t, won’t wait until fruit is ripe to pick it from the tree, instead rather eat bitter peachberry, doesn’t care if it’s still green. Easy problem, easy solution, yet SkekVar refuses!”

The Emperor clanked his metal sceptre against the rock tiles of the floor, commanding silence in his Court with a deafening pang. You stirred at the jarring sound and caught the green eyes of the Chamberlain glinting with mirth, his beak curled in a self-satisfied smile that promised yet more trouble for the General. Yet, his point being made, his pleasure already obtained, he bowed down and obeyed just as the rest did.

SkekSo waited for his brethren to settle, huddling together as much as their bulky forms could without stepping on each other’s robes, and then spoke, addressing the fuming General directly. “Vapra counts as the clan that contributes the most to the annual tithing, SkekVar, we all are well aware of this. As former Ambassador, you are more than used to the festivities the All-Maudra has asked of us.”

“Gelfling have no right to demand attendance of us, my liege. Is it not an insult to us skeksis, to our right to rule over them, if we were to follow suit with their petition?”

“You forget _who_ is the one that rules, SkekVar. The gelfling have offered an invitation, however ridiculous their celebration might be,” continued the Emperor in his no-nonsense voice, tired of the whining. At the tone, the skeksis tensed in their positions, recognizing an air warning when they were given one. SkekSo only continued talking after dragging his ice-like eyes over his subjects, satisfied with the heavy silence and the boiling expectation; once he could tell every soul in the room was holding their breath in wait for his next words, he spoke: “This is hardly a new event, and I fail to understand why you would be so opposed to a feast, even among gelfling, when you have partaken in them for centuries now. The seven hundred trine anniversary of… Hm. The anniversary of whatever they will be celebrating soon-”

“-the establishment of the Great Library of Ha’rar, that’s what they are commemorating” supplied eagerly the Scroll Keeper in his shrill voice, raising a sickly thin had where he held a parchment with the details of the event.

You observed the long-beaked skeksis with interested prudence, marvelling in how he dared to intervene in a battle of wills he had no place in. As you had heard, he asked for the privilege to attend the celebration instead of the General every fifty trine, never missing his chance and always seeming to know when the invitation to the party would arrive before anyone else, and the Emperor crushed his hopes every single time, no matter how hard he wanted to justify his visit with the purpose of research for whatever new knowledge the gelfling had come across. This time, you had been there to see it, and realised there was no justification for SkekSo’s refusal other than to bask in the defeated look that soiled the nearly blind Scroll Keeper’s disposition.

The frustrated sorrow from his kin seemed to nourish the Emperor as much as actual food did. If the Scientist were to tell you he fed only on despair, spite and self-amusement, you would believe him without hesitation; the gears in his head were ever-turning, always at work, SkekSo’s eyes as intense and plagued as you knew the Chamberlain’s were when he was scheming something. In SkekSil’s case, you knew he was motivated by greed and his desire for control, but you were yet to guess what drove SkekSo other than his consuming ambition to keep himself as the ruler of Thra. 

“Yes, yes,” dismissed the Emperor, waving his hand at the glowing expression of the bespectacled skeksis. The Scroll Keeper deflated and the Ornamentalist, who stood by his side, laughed openly at his misfortune; at his other side, the Scientist, despite being his only partner in academic matters, cackled just as mercilessly. Paying them no attention, the Emperor addressed SkekVar still, his gaze hooded as if to dare him to interrupt or cross him. “You are well used to this _eventuality_ by now; I can’t help but wonder why you are throwing a fit about it. Do you have an answer for me, General, or this is just another failed move in the game you play against the Chamberlain?”

It was clear the Emperor did not want an answer from his subject, and thus the General, after looking rightfully scolded, returned to argue with SkekSil, who was only too happy to rise for the occasion. Seemingly achieving what he was going for, which was to anger SkekVar enough to have the Emperor siding with him, the Chamberlain dropped the niceties, his whole benign charade crumbling to the ground in favour of open aggression and petty remarks.

By the time the Ritual Master, seconded by the growls from the Gourmand’s stomach, interrupted the squabble to announce the Three Sisters were appropriately positioned in the sky for luncheon to proceed, the General was foaming at the mouth and squinting so hard his eyes had become scorching slits; more annoyed than entertained at this point, the Emperor had to command him to take a walk so he could calm down lest his temper ruined the meal.

* * *

A happy Chamberlain was a doting one and, based on that simple principle, you loved it when things worked out for SkekSil. Not only had he the habit on giggling to himself, almost as if he could not believe how smart he was, but his tongue loosened; it was on these occasions when you actually learnt the hidden secrets of the castle and the feuds among its inhabitants, information you could use not only to his benefit, as the reluctant pawn he had made of you, but to yours as well.

Of course, Hell would freeze over before the Chamberlain shared actual, useful, crucial knowledge with anyone, and it was true he had been giving you the stink eye for a while now, all because the Emperor seemed to favour you more than he had done in the past. While this new attention on you granted him a wider window to put in practise his extracurricular functions as beacon of chaos, it also meant the private time you two shared together was also cut short.

Besides, the Chamberlain had a jealousy streak a mile wide, and you always ended subjected to it one way or another.

On the brief moments you had, SkekSil liked to scurry away through the halls for a walk far from prying ears, often to brag about his accomplishments during the Court session, but not only for that. If the Emperor, who very much enjoyed pushing him back in a metaphorical corner, made a show of getting handsy with his petting on your head –which SkekSo did every time he considered his counsellor had crossed a line and needed some reminding of who was actually in charge despite his freedom to spew nonsense as he liked– then the Chamberlain was just as ready to pull a little stunt of his own to get back at the dry ruler.

Every skeksis was in on the unspeakable pact not to talk about the intimate nature of the relationship you shared since the Ritual Master had tried to correct it and almost got himself killed –a good deterrent as any and quite deserving, in your humble opinion–; all it took it was the Emperor not acknowledging the obvious scandal to stablish it was not a forbidden or punishable matter, just a shame for the Chamberlain to indulge in in private, which he did often and thoroughly, thank you very much.

Still, it was just as clear SkekSo did not like it one bit when you came back to sit at his feet with the stench of a good snogging etched in your skin, and SkekSil lived for that fleeting squint he always got, the one that told him his silent rebellion was noticed and just as successful as ever.

There was this balcony the Chamberlain liked to take you to, where gelfling patrols never reached, most likely because it looked too skeksis-like even for the Castle of the Crystal, too terrifying and formal with that big, brass winding horn perched on the lip of stone overseeing the woods. You had never asked about the three tubes of its body or why it seemed to be fucking haunted with the fanged, beast-like carvings; when you got to this balcony in particular something in your brain clicked, mostly because of the hunger in the eyes of the Chamberlain, and you forgot about everything but the hyperawareness of being absolutely alone with the object of your desire.

Despite his petite disposition when compared to yours, his wire-like arms and fingers, the bulk of his body crafted almost in its entirety by robes upon robes, SkekSil had always known how to summon the impression of being in command at will; he hummed thoughtfully and pretended to enjoy the view of the forest, tapped his claws audibly on the stone veranda –the perfect picture of innocence and good will–, then turned with that searing look, approaching you with predatory, deliberately slow steps and made a show of inspecting your clothes, picking distractedly at loose threads, smoothing or rumpling folds from your outfit just to get his hands on you.

It was a game about how quick he could make your serene façade fall, so you docilly gave him doe eyes, allowed him to back you against the cold, rough wall and have his way trying to get his fingers under your clothes to greedily access your skin. He was so eager, so methodical yet restrained, a contradiction of desire and self-discipline for patient gratification, his breath held as he tested pressure and tact, nimbly scrapping and dragging talons over your flesh in search for what made you sigh and moan. When the Chamberlain felt the goosebumps under his palms, the sight of your hands firmly planted by your hips on the stone so you could offer yourself to him, he could not help but purr, a deep sound stirring from his chest like a waking beast, his craving for control going haywire in the back of his head.

It was fucking stupid how that single drawled sound delighted you, made you weak in the knees, knowing how much he wanted you. It was an unstoppable reaction all the same.

Today, however, SkekSil seemed even more flustered and fidgety, more demanding than his usual steady but firm approach he faced most situations with, and you had to clear your throat in warning when his claws threatened to pierce through your shirt, surprisingly careless, the game more violent than in was proper for the short respite you were allowed before your return to the throne room so Court could resume.

What you received in answer for your petition of prudence was a smouldering glare and a rough growl, which you were not expecting at all. SkekSil was, despite his volatility and short temper when things did not go his way, a gentle and persuasive lover, hardly forceful, and while your relationship was not stablished in unwavering roles of dominancy and submission, he was not usually as obstinate and rigid when you asked softness from him. 

As if provoked by your sudden halt in pace, the Chamberlain raised his head and shoved his beak filled with blade-sharp fang ring in your face, his talons neatly placed on your collarbone by your neck, threatening to prickle through skin with their sharp tips. When he spoke, his voice carried ice and poison. “Having fun with Emperor, yes? Human is so very polite sitting at his feet, like toothless fizzgig… Hmm. No bark, no bite. He pets and touches human and human lets him be, yes? Very, very docile. So very pliant and devoted. So _obedient._ ”

The blood in your veins froze, your throat tightened, your reflexes trained to identify when you toed the line for your life –an instinct you did not know you possessed but that had proven more than useful on Thra, where pissed off, trigger happy skeksis were lurking around every corner, their claws ready to tear into your flesh.

Regardless, you had been through this.

You had been here, and you really did not, should not, roll your eyes at the most vengeful creature you knew for getting snippy of something it had been originally his idea, but it was a very difficult endeavour. The Chamberlain had been the sole enabler who suggested you were taken as a pet for the Emperor, he was who whispered wretched ideas in SkekSo’s ear and pulled at the strings in the castle. How could you be to blame for something that was so veritably his doing, you could not know.

What you _did_ know was that skeksis were unpredictable, violent, possessive and distrustful, and you were currently trapped by the one who had perfected all those ugly feelings and honeyed them into a weapon for literal centuries. And he currently held you at claw-point.

You grabbed the Chamberlain’s thin wrist, warily keeping track if he were to lash out, and guided it under your clothes, taking it away from your neck and forcing his cold, rough palm on one of your tits. SkekSil was not easily distracted, just like a shark trailing a whiff of blood, but his talons cupped your chest with lascivious familiarity and gave it a good, lustful squeeze that tore a gasp from you.

He could multitask, his heated panting and the push of his clothed hips against your legs a testimony of want and willpower. 

You peeled your lips at him, nose wrinkled in distaste to his egoistical attitude, and decided to tackle the problem heads on so you could have your romping in peace. “I have to do that. I _have_ to sit down and be silent and do what he wants of me because he is the Emperor and he can get me executed if he so desires, and he just has to wave a hand to have the General snapping my spine in two like a _twig_. Yes. Yes, I’m going to sit down at his feet and offer my belly up if that’s how he wants it because he has my life in his hands.”

The Chamberlain contemplated you answer, weighting your flesh and pinching your nipple cruelly with one hand and forcing open the fabric that covered your torso with the other, his actions fuelled by your shivers and wavering, reluctant intakes of air –he liked it when you surrendered to him, when he could manipulate your body into whatever reactions he desired with how aroused he had made you.

His doing, your reactions his alone to witness and enjoy, no matter whatever role you had to fulfil in other places.

Knowing how much you enjoyed the attention on the area, the Chamberlain opened his maw and licked a long line of saliva from the base of your sternum to the tip of your chin, the touch heavy with intention, and nibbled at your neck until the skin was red and abused and you had to clench your mouth shut to keep yourself from making too much noise. Your hands went to him, an involuntary gesture you refused to hold back, and just like every single time you were out in this fucking balcony or stealing a few good gropes in a narrow corridor, you were met with resistance.

You groaned in frustration, unable to touch him, pulling and pushing and fisting the many fabrics that covered his body with no result, attempting to undress him a fraction so you could caress him back, but SkekSil shoved your hands away and against the wall so he could get on with his explorations.

At the end of the encounter, you would look positively defiled, hair tousled, clothes dislodged, your throat and any other visible patch of skin marked with bruises or scratches or a lewd combination of both, and the Chamberlain would just have to readjust and smooth his outer robe, thumb the ruff around his neck and be done with it.

“General,” hissed SkekSil, savouring the choked whines of want you tried to muffle with your hands, the pressure of his fingers leaving irritated paths of red on your body, “will not dare look upon what’s not his. Will not touch human for she is not his to touch. Chamberlain will right his wrongs, will make him regret his scheming, will stop him from doing what he must not. Big plans for the future, yes; human has little to worry about. SkekSil is handling it.”

“…Plans?” you blinked, not exactly in your right mind to keep up with his vicious plotting.

As you desired, SkekSil was also not in a sharing mood, and he let you know by ripping your robe open and licking a long, languid strip of drool over your nipples, soothing the aches his talons had left behind, his tongue enthusiastic and indulgent. “Not now, please? Chamberlain is _busy._ ”

You had no use for skirts in the castle; whenever a skeksis demanded of your presence, you were required to be wherever post-haste, and loose fabric wrapped and tangled in your legs was a hazard for polite running. Thus, after much nagging, you had convinced the Chamberlain –who still despised your guts at the time– to ask for some sort of a daily set of clothes that did not involve a blanket with a rope hemmed into it. Something practical you could follow your duties in. The Ornamentalist had been greatly enthusiastic about the challenge despite the laziness of his skeksis nature pulling in the opposite direction, and he had found compromise on a makeshift pair of very loose pants. In due time, the Chamberlain had learnt to do and undo the lazes that held the crotch together with swift eagerness, which only played in your favour in the long run.

Now, the free hand that was not fondling your chest made quick work of the knots at your waist and slithered beyond and under, shivering in satisfaction when his leathery pad met bare flesh, hot, wet and wanting. You buckled under the attention of his cold touch, folding over him and almost hitting you face with the carapace over his back, your knees refusing to keep you upright; by now, SkekSil knew how to caress you, which touches made you whimper and which made you burn like a pyre, and he kept a firm yet soft motion on your clit, an unforgiving pace, his fangs finding home in your neck and nibbling on it like a starving leech as he pushed and pushed until he could break you.

“We can’t be late,” you panted, somehow still concerned with the impending Court meeting looming over your head. Your struggle, your resistance not to abandon yourself in the moment spurred the Chamberlain, who pressed a demanding, callous knuckle against your swollen nub. As if you had just whispered an invitation, the attack on your throat increased as well, his unnatural, too wet tongue lavishing skin as his hand rubbed you unbearably faster, only breaking contact to gather your arousal from your lower lips to use it as lubricant, not even bothering with teased penetration and focusing his efforts where they mattered for what he was going for, tensing your body taut like a string.

Your orgasm came hard and fast, forced and with a massive explosion of white behind your eyes that left your ears ringing.

“Hear the noises you make; see how you look at SkekSil. Human is the Chamberlain’s to savour,” SkekSil cooed, his voice soft and alluring, with the confidence of someone who knew their words rang true. His fingers still massaged you, prolonging your peak longer, gentler than they had been before but still ongoing, until you were squirming in overstimulation against the frilly fabric covering his long neck, your forehead pressed for relief against the cold surface of the carapace on his back.

He laughed smugly and, when he considered he had had enough of your restless cuddling, pinched your clit to bring you back. You yelped, more in surprise than in pain, shoving his thin hand out of your pants. Nasty, arrogant fucker.

You wiped your face, red and steaming as it was, and tried to either stop the pounding of your heart or his stupid laughter at your expense. “Doesn’t matter how you fondle me, my Lord; even if you are the one to keep track of my doings, I’m the Emperor’s pet.”

“Emperor will never want human,” SkekSil assured you, licking your juices from his claws with vulgar, deep satisfaction. He cared little if you antagonised him, this day row after row of victories and your words, while bitter and true, did not affect or offend him.

You grunted, displeased and appalled, peeved because he would not let the Emperor go even if he had just literally masturbated you in a public space. “I don’t want him to want me, I don’t _want him_ -”

“Toy, isn’t it, then?” he interrupted, his malcontent gesture frowning at you in obvious condescension. “For Emperor to do as he pleases, for Chamberlain to play with, for skeksis to break and order around. Like gelfling, but more; like skeksis, but _less_.”

SkekSil went back to pushing his beak in your face, exposing a row of sharp fangs for you to consider before crossing him further, his composure less in check than you had given him credit for. You sheathed your own teeth you had revealed in your anger, precautionary, knowing how bad his temper was when truly challenged, and twisted your head to offer him your bruised neck in a plain show of submission. Even after you backed down, the Chamberlain breathed in your face, green eyes sparkling like live wire, the permanent competition between him and SkekSo burning at the front of his brain.

It was so clear in his mind, so obvious and transparent, so easy to enact. It mattered not what you were, only your position in the castle and how he could use it to his advantage, which meant he did not have to bother lying or convincing you to do his bidding because you were a replaceable plaything to use and throw away once you became a nuisance.

Jealousy acrid and overwhelming, SkekSil considered marking you with something more permanent than the scent of sex mixed with his own, perhaps a good, deep bite on your neck, something that would still remain after it healed, placed where it would be impossible to conceal or hide under garments. It would match the set of scars on your face, your mauled, deformed ear the Ritual Master had condemned on you-

But he was _not_ the Ritual Master, and he did not have to force a mark on you when you took him willingly, when it was you the one searching for him. Not the Emperor nor the Ritual Master, who ordered you around because they had no other way to make you listen, to have you surrender to their wishes. SkekSil could do that as well if he so desired, push and pull you without ever meeting resistance or an antagonising word, nothing stopped him from it– but where was the satisfaction in it? He was better than that, he was good at getting others to bend to his will, he had done so with gelfling, with skeksis, with you. Bigger the effort as it was, so were as well the rewards that came with his investment.

At the end of the day, you always came back. You were _his_ to own because you had chosen it that way, you had given yourself to him.

And now, however, his words had unleashed fire in your eyes, a flame as bright as the one in his own, and SkekSil realised he had pushed you too far; there was rebellion in your submission, strained muscles behind your complacence, and if you wanted, you could fight him. If you chose to do so, the Chamberlain was not certain he could win; he had claws and fangs and a harnessed viciousness hard to find in wild nature, but you were physically larger, likely stronger too if your mind was put to it, and it was a hindrance, a risk not knowing if his chances of victory were absolute or not.

As someone who prided himself in picking his battles very carefully, SkekSil knew he had to withdraw his aggression and smooth the wrinkles of your rage before the time was too late to placate your wrath.

Unfortunately, his offense had gone too far already for him to take it back, both insult and gnarled injury, and he bitterly acknowledged his mistake when your body relaxed yet your gesture kept their unforgiving distance despite his apologetic retreat.

“I’m not a _toy_ ,” you hissed with steely determination, position clear even if you knew you were only spitting lies. You had wondered about it before, and while the Chamberlain had not revealed anything new, he had still rubbed an ugly truth in your face. What else could you be, in this castle full of creatures, in this foreign world, but a plaything for those who ruled it? Still, being a pet was better than being a fucking toy; even if it was just a word, it did not take away your sentience, your will hidden under your status, it did not erase your personhood or your mind like being called a _thing_ did.

No matter the now soft disposition of your chargé, his bowed head, placid hands and swishing tail, a meek purr radiating from his chest, you were angry. You were fucking pissed off, that’s what you were, a ghastly heat taking over your expression, a grimace frozen in silent but perseverant outrage.

You refused to share his bed that night, and the following three nights as well, turning a deaf ear to his high-pitched whines and the sad thumping on his tail on the mattress, like an unfairly punished dog. Despite your refusal to hold him, a dynamic that had quickly taken over when you went to bed unless the Chamberlain was too fidgety to lie down, SkekSil insisted on curling as close as he could to your back, which you counteracted by shifting your place of sleep to the cushions on the floor and kept doing so until he reluctantly agreed to stay on his designated place on the bed.

On the seventh day of your tantrum, an ongoing battle of wills you were determined not to lose purely based on spite alone, a podling came to find you. They offered you a tray bursting with sweets; thinking it was from the Lord Gourmand, who still attempted to either roofie or poison you –for reasons unrelated to your period, you liked to believe, though you dared not put all your eggs in that particular basket–, you refused the snack on principle.

The following day, the same podling came with a companion, both of them wheeling a plate rack with all sorts of pastries practically swimming in honey, a treat you remembered asking from the Chamberlain when you were suffering from period cramps.

You turned your nose on the sweets again, this time with first-hand knowledge of what you were doing and not regretting it one bit.


	2. The Anvil's Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You fuck up big time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I will change the format of this story; I wanna make it sort of long, so I rather write shorter chapters instead of one massive update that would take people half of their lives to finish.  
> Me: I think chapters with 4k or 5k would be more than enough.  
> Me: ...  
> Me: *writes a 9k update*  
> Me: *pikachu face*
> 
> ________
> 
> Please, enjoy and comment!

You had been promoted from exotic threat who made gelfling cower to exotic pet for the Lords of the Crystal to sneer at and thus, the Emperor practised the newfound pleasure of having you around to listen to the grumbling of his deep voice when he felt like talking oud loud and did not want to seem like a lunatic. Just like the Chamberlain, thanks to whom you already had extensive experience in these one-man colloquiums, SkekSo was extremely careful not to reveal anything of genuine importance.

Regardless of his qualms about you snitching his secrets to his most trusted counsellor, he must had felt truly bored –as his brethren was, confined in the castle by will and sake– if he had made a podling servant fetch you from the most distant corner of the castle just to share his thoughts on instrumental music.

And there you sat at the ruler’s feet, legs crossed instead of kneeling because there was no one in the room to show off your obedience to, cranking your neck up to glance at the small deck where the podling musicians sat banging drums and blowing bugles and making, in practice, quite an amount of noise, of which not all of it was actually pleasant. Not to excuse the servants and their ruckus but they had been playing for hours, and your heart felt for them, not because of how tired they must had been but for the impending, increasing storm visibly building up inside the Emperor, whose patience for incompetence was reaching its limits at a steady and relentless pace.

After one terrible bleating from something that resembled an ungracious didgeridoo with severe scoliosis problems, SkekSo rammed his sceptre on the stone floor, his temper finally boiling over. “That is quite enough! More than enough! Quiet, the lot of you, quiet. Make yourself scarce, you vermin!”

Cowering under the onslaught of the Emperor’s hostility, the musicians did not hesitate a second. With the padding of their little feet, the podlings rushed to leave the chamber, tripping over themselves in a race to the door so they could get away from the impending danger were they to linger, a benefit you were unfortunately not granted.

Equally fearful of the ruler, you curtsied in respect, your hands holding each other in your lap as pleasantly as you could make them look, sparing no effort to ignore how queasy and apprehensive his anger made you. The Emperor had yet to inflict any harm on you, but exercising caution seemed like an imperative measure whenever in his presence –you had seen the effect his sharp tongue could do to undermine his own brethren, you could not fathom what he could be capable of if he decided to employ more bodily measures.

Stories of old spoke of how he had gained his position as ruler, and if he was willing to maim his own kind for ambition’s sake, you were certain you did not want to cross his path, no siree.

SkekSo made some grumbling inveighs under his breath, his tail calmly thumping the ground with the quiet stillness that preceded a hurricane. In mute contemplation, his glacial eyes revised the small balcony, as if he could set it on fire with his gaze alone, and then skipped through the room towards you, contemplation and disfavour very obvious in his visage. You wondered if he just liked to have you there so he could complain about the podlings and their deplorable musical skills but then erased the thought from your mind; the Emperor’s image could not be sullied like that, with him mussing his grievances to you just because you happened to be there.

“Do you happen to play?” SkekSo finally gruffed out, and you did a double take on the instruments before shaking your head, as if you needed to check if you actually had the skills. “Well?”

“No, my Lord. Nor can I sing, I lack the voice for it,” you apologised, shoulders hunched. At the twisted expression on his beak, his tongue clicking as if to think of a different entertainment he could get in the castle –and all the possibilities _that_ implied considering you were within hand’s reach–, you quickly added: “but I can whistle.”

To your own disbelief, SkekSo nodded thoughtfully, his posture more upright now that you had been granted his undivided attention; his interest picked, he laid his head on a bejewelled hand and motioned in your general direction with the other, the long sleeve of his robes draping over the throne’s armrest like a long, elegant but lifeless wing. “Very well, I find myself intrigued. Is whistling a cultural part of your race and its musical tradition?”

“No, sir,” you stammered; “we use it for cattle or hunting or for beckoning, uh, beasts we keep as home companions or other people… It can also be found in music, but I don’t know how other human cultures use it, only the one I was raised in.”

His furore soothed, the ruler pondered over this new information and nodded to himself, and then offered you a lenient gesture. “Go ahead, do share your human whistles with me.”

Maybe it was the wording, perhaps the way your helpless brain had been unable to catch up with the embellished request, but the very first thing you came up with, and subsequently decided to whistle to the Emperor of a whole planet, was a jingle from a toothpaste commercial.

Not noticing how you mentally kicked yourself for your stupidity or forgiving it because skeksis lacked lips to whistle with and the tune sounded foreign and appealing –you could not imagine a gelfling or a podling having the nerve to make such a colloquial noise in front of any Lords of the Crystal–, SkekSo waved at you again, wordlessly demanding an encore.

You went through all the ads you could remember, then carols, then childhood cartoon intros and lullabies, which entertained him just fine, and then, sillily gathering bravery because of his enthralled encourage, you tried your hand with more complex, classical pieces, doing your best not to think too much on how you sounded like an elevator reproducing non-copyrighted music.

You were woozy with so much blowing, yes, but the music brought nostalgia and good times to your mind, and it was _nice_ to be able to remember something from your previous life in a different place other than your brooding hours.

By the end of the afternoon, the time determined by the growing shindig coming from the hallway behind the closed doors of the throne room, the Emperor dismissed you, looking both pleasantly impressed and unconventionally satisfied with your impromptu performance.

You obeyed his command swiftly, exiting the sala through a concealed door, a weird feeling settled in your gut. One last glance to the ruler, to make sure you had not hallucinated the last hours, and you were caught off-guard at the calculating force that had settled in SkekSo’s icy eyes.

You left the throne room with your stomach tied in knots.

* * *

Perhaps your previous assessment of the Emperor being a peacekeeper was wrong. Perhaps he liked to provoke the skeksis into a pandemonium just like the rest of them did, perhaps he was just _smarter_ at doing so.

He had noticed almost immediately when you had stopped stinking of the fruity oils the Chamberlain favoured –a welcomed relief for his nostrils– and knew something foul was brewing hidden from his judgement or the Court’s; you had proven to be a quick learner, even if a tragic one, and had absorbed the lessons in propriety imparted by the Ritual Master like a sponge, which meant you understood your position and what duties and behaviours were welcomed or frowned upon in his presence. In short, you knew to never acknowledge SkekSil when in Court, and only glanced up at him when it was the counsellor’s turn to speak his mind; you focused your complete deference on SkekSo and not your caretaker –you complied and followed instructions meticulously, and the way you carried yourself was boringly unreproachable.

There was nothing out of place, nothing odd stuck out if one were to inspect his subjects’ demeanour, not a single metaphorical hair out of place or concealed resentment bursting at the seams.

SkekSil was just as sparklingly artful as he ever was, his performance in Court spectacular and merciless, and his distance from you could have only been noticed by an expert eye and a keen nose, nevertheless the Emperor saw it. There were these fleeting glances, assessing glimpses that barely lasted a blink, when the Chamberlain’s mind left his immediate devices to watch you, his gaze drilling, if briefly, just as deeply in your form.

SkekSo, in his brain-rotting boredom, was thrilled. There was imbalance –yes, petty and small and inconsequential in the big scheme of things, but still present.

There was an idle member in his Court, not just anyone but his right hand, his most valued counsellor, who was not exactly placed where he should be. There was this _misalignment_ in the pieces of the game, which could just not be allowed. It was inadmissible.

It was also such a juicy distraction in these excruciatingly peaceful times he could not believe his luck.

The Emperor understood, maybe better than anyone on Thra, the grandeur of a little push morphing into an earth-shattering calamity; why work endlessly, day after day, like the Chamberlain did, to sweeten everything to his liking when the smallest of actions exercised at the right moment could achieve the same disastrous effect. And thus, SkekSo lied in wait, his claws sheathed until the appropriate time to pounce showed itself.

The occasion, as expected, happened on its own, a dull greyish morning when the Crystal Lords met in a drowsy mood, more out of habit than will, and mingled in the Court chamber to share snippets of conversations over a cup of too sweet tea. The Ritual Master and the General were hurled together, in quiet discussion for skeksis standards, the perfect picture of bait that would had been irresistible for the Chamberlain on a regular day. As SkekSo had anticipated, not only SkekSil did not rise to bite but kept his own whispers for the Scientist, only listening with half an ear as SkekTek rambled on and on about things with little meaning to him, his attention undoubtedly clinging to your kneeling, complacent form at his feet.

SkekSo had learnt, through time and routine, the different ways he could pet you, pulling at the strands of your hair, burying his claws in your locks, dragging his long, unnatural fingers through your scalp so lightly you subconsciously leaned back to follow the stroking motion; this knowledge on your preferences the Emperor had considered ridiculous, unnecessary, a waste of space in his brain, yet it proved itself the contrary at the moment –how basic, how animalistic and primitive you conducted yourself, and oh how much delight it brought him to have a creature of your regard bow down to act as a lowly pet for him to enjoy.

You were relaxed, now accustomed to the swishing of his tail by your folded thighs, the familiar weight of his hand tangled in your head, masterfully avoiding knotting his engraved ringsnails in the curls of hair, your muscles and joints trained for the uncomfortable kneeling posture after months of executing it –it brought him wicked satisfaction, luring you both to prime behaviour and a sense of instinctive security ingrained enough you could afford to focus on other matters and not his looming, ever-threatening presence at your back.

His strike, when enacted, was not of the deadly kind, in fact, it would have been hardly noticeable if not timed carefully. The Emperor awaited, his smugness and expectations building hungrily like a predator stalking a juicy piece of meat, for a lull in the chorus of skeksis voices, and then trailed a single digit, its metal, cold tip feathery but present, from your crown to the base of the skull, his usual radio of action, and then dipped lower, down the column of your neck, bumping each vertebral protrusion until he reached the hemline of your outfit.

His touch was brief and light but grimly deliberate, as if he was using a blade instead of his finger. Your skin rose in goosebumps, and the short hairs at the nape of your neck stood up. Your reaction was immediate and more than he could have wished for; there was a violent shiver, your posture stretched straight as if a bolt had shot through your spine, and your breathing, earlier imperceptible, choked in surprise, a tiny gasp that turned deafening for those in the closest vicinity. Coming off you was the stench of fear of someone who had been caught unaware and only now perceived the danger.

From SkekSo’s point of view, things were radically different: Success. Pure, raw success, that was what he would call it. The Emperor cared not if you dared relax again, attention affixed in the Chamberlain at his right.

SkekSil watched him, his eyes loaded in ice and poison and the most delicious incredulity, not believing someone of his station would dare to provoke such reactions in a public setting. What was worse, if possible, was how SkekSo had stepped over the unmentionable, taboo knowledge that you were exclusively the Chamberlain’s to enjoy, and he had done so in front of the Court, with no attempt at concealment, thus shoving open the metaphorical door for other Lords to approach you, his exclusivity on you and your favours nothing but vanished.

SkekSil’s privileged claim was no more.

This realisation was quickly absorbed in muted, imperceptible horror, by the Chamberlain himself. If the robes of his advisor were less bulky, SkekSo was certain he could have seen raised quills and fluffed up fur, but, alas, they were not; under the same predicament, the Chamberlain allowed his claws to twitch once in all-consuming bloodthirst and then relaxed them in a loose grip in front of his chest.

Just like that, the Emperor had made his move, the pieces were back into their rightful positions, and he could sit back and watch the results of his transgression develop _in propria persona_.

It took you a good hour and a half to return to your mellow mood, the tendons in your neck taut and visible once the Emperor returned to his petting, but at last it was achieved; though still on guard in his presence, which was a lesson most skeksis could benefit from but never seemed to retain, SkekSo allowed you your leave out of the throne room, your fidgety, nervous energy despite your motionlessness irking his victorious disposition.

You fled hastily, bowing deeply in respect to his person and then found your way to the hallways in long, hurried steps, dazzled by the strong pounding of blood in your ears in fear and dizzying disconcert.

It mattered not if your retreat was all proper, for the Emperor was not even looking at it, too busy monitoring how, like an unhinged beast chained in place by decorum alone, the Chamberlain did not bother to hide how his anxious eyes trailed after you.

* * *

You had returned to sleeping in the Chamberlain’s bed after a week of making sure your point, that you were fucking pissed at him for rubbing your toy-like existence in your face, got across –and you enacted this backpedalling for several reasons.

One of them, probably the one that weighted the most, was because it was undeniable you did not want to push his patience and your rebellion too far, not knowing where the Lord of the Crystal considered dissatisfaction turned into betrayal, and you were unwilling to risk yourself becoming a threat to his status and mingling –you knew with blind confidence SkekSil would not hesitate to dispose of you if you suddenly became a bigger hazard than he considered you were worth dealing with.

The other reason was, for better or worse, way simpler than a survival matter; his bed was the most wonderful thing in the whole castle, basic as this merit was, and it had become almost physically painful to renounce of it –yes, you had spent almost a trine sleeping on cushions on the stone floor, but now that you had escaped the cave and seen the fire, you refused to return to the cave and its meaningless shadows.

The Chamberlain, for the most part and in spite of his own avaricious desires, respected your moody mutinous strike and sieged himself in his side of the bed, making a show of whimpers like a kicked pup as he buried himself in blankets, which you ignored swiftly. Your indifference, however, was not something the Lord was accommodating to, and while imposing his presence or wants on you was a blocked road, SkekSil had other ways to make things happen.

Somehow, no matter how titanic were your efforts to keep yourself as skeksis-free as you could when resting, would wake up the next day with the Chamberlain’s tail stretched through the mattress and curled around your ankle, the rest of SkekSil’s body innocently laying where you had seen him fall asleep the previous night. You, as it was natural, suspected he was abiding to his early waking hour to latch onto you if only to make a point in blatant defiance to your prolonged tirade, but, as it usually tended to be with anything the Chamberlain did, there was no veritable evidence to demonstrate your theory.

Other then SkekSil and his petty war you had decided to partake in, there were more developments in the Castle of the Crystal and with the exception of the Emperor not getting handsy with you after that one, too-forward incident you believed he enacted out of pure curiosity, none of them you deemed good.

You had started to notice the General frequenting the Ritual Master’s company more often than you knew the religious skeksis had the patience for –SkekZok, despite his polite behaviour when in public meetings and his knack for manners, would rather chew glass if that meant he could be spared the small talk with those of his kind he did not see eye to eye with, his willingness to put up with simpletons all but a charade. In spite of this, however, the pair drifted to each other at meals and during Court sessions, their inquisitive squinting aimed cruelly at you with hidden intentions, and, well, maybe it was a hunch, maybe you were getting paranoid, but it stank like they were up to something nefarious at the very least.

On the other hand, more worrisome but even less justified by your brain and more by your gut, was the sudden, impeccant reconciliation from the Chamberlain towards the Emperor. While never falling out of royal favour, these days SkekSil seemed too eager to approach the ruler, servile, dutiful and devout and, what you found even more flabbergasting, SkekSo himself welcomed the advances rather smugly, often found nodding along whatever the Chamberlain was so kind as to mumble in his ear.

It was fishy as fuck.

You were cornered by two fronts, two obvious, opposite alliances that promised significant changes in the near future, and both of them were an axis of darkness as far as you were concerned.

The Emperor himself had not failed to see this division, his eyes hooded under pale lashes, as he observed the events roll and unfold like a bolt of fabric plummeting down a flight of stairs. The day he decided to finally voice his opinion on the tasteless coalition that did not involve his persona found you stealing pastries from the Gourmand’s personal stash in the kitchen.

Your fingers guiltily covered in droplets of honey, your body slouching as not to hit your noggin with the stony ceiling while a very outraged podling demanded you followed them through the hallways, what could you do but shrug and do as you were told? More than once, and rather frequently as of late now that the Emperor had started having you as a whistling radio for the dull hours between gatherings, podlings just scurried by you grabbing at your clothes to take you to where you were required to be. It must had been the sugar rush making you dismiss details, for you just did not pay attention where you were being led, busy suckling your fingers clean and whipping them on your clothes to hide all evidence before a Lord of the Crystal found you and decided to punish your audacity instead of using your brain.

With little ceremony typical of a servant with a lot of things to do and not enough time for them, the podling garbled at you and pushed your shins until you stepped into the room they were adamantly pointing at.

“Yes, alright. I get it, in there, fine. Stop pushing me.”

The podling grumbled and scuttled away quickly, leaving you to obey their petition -or not- at your own risk.

As you did whenever you entered a room in a common area for the castle, instead of registering your environment to get some context clues like sane person would have done, you immediately tried to locate the Emperor in order to bow as it was appropriate. And then you noticed it, the oddly familiar tiled floor and the cacophony of voices around you, all skeksis in nature, all of them bubbly and echoing strangely in the humid space. You stomach _dropped_.

You were in the bathing chamber and, as it was natural for such a place, the Lords within it –the whole skeksis population in the castle, mind you– were wearing an assortment of outfits that varied from transparent, frilly fabrics clinging to their leathery bodies thanks to the ambient dampness to absolutely nothing. There was a vast amount of skin out in the open.

Needless to say, you froze in the spot, rigid as a rod, eyes first widening in horror and then closing tight as you could make them. You face was on fire, your ears going so hot you could feel your heartbeat I them, and your mouth clenched dry.

A sound so high-pitched only dogs could have heard it scaping from your throat like a lament and an ode to your mortification, you tucked your head down so deeply your chin settled against your chest, from where you did not plan to move it –that way you would not see no Lords _au naturel_ , no, not even by accident. You should have looked where you were before dashing it, you should have checked like someone reasonable and then you would not be in such a pickle -in front of you wobbled the Gourmand in all his glory, the only part of him you had to see being his feet, as he walked towards a bathtub to sink in.

You craved death.

“Whenever you are amenable and satiated from bowing,” came the rumble from the Emperor’s location, bursting with laughter at your abashment, and other skeksis cackled loudly at his insult, “kindly come here, I lack the fancy for lifting my voice this evening.”

“Forward, sir?” you asked stupidly. You could not, you were _not_ going to approach him, or any other skeksis for the matter, while they were butt naked in a public space –this was not some Roman thermal springs and they were not senators and you were not, by the stars above, _you were not-_

“Perhaps it would better suit your preferences to wait for the Three Sisters to set and rise again, human? I am but at your service,” cooed the Emperor. There was an obvious, deadly warning there and you received it with a painful shiver of fear bolting down your spine.

Under expectant gazes, you dragged your feet a meter from your place; then, after a strong, even more threatening throat clearing that conveyed withering patience, another meter. You were still quite far from where the Emperor sat, and, after an otherworldly growl that spoke of nightmares and made your skin crawl despite the warmth around you, you plodded another meter, shrinking over yourself as much as you physically could and wishing the earth would swallow you whole. 

“Lord Emperor,” you pleaded.

Your whining brought satisfaction to the old ruler, oozing off him like a cloud of perfume, but somewhat your humiliation was scant just the same. He would not be left wanting of it, that was certain. “Eyes _up_ , girl.”

You pressed your fists against your thighs in a grip so strong they trembled, your nails digging painfully in your palms. You heaved, suddenly out of breath, and shook your head side to side, still facing the ground, as if your neck were rusty gears refusing to collaborate.

“I must apologize, my Lord, but I can’t,” you supplicated with a sliver of voice.

Other than the cascades of water falling into tubs and drops hitting the floor with little splashes, there was a dooming silence in the room, the Lords of the Crystal finding your disobedience far more worth witnessing than whatever conversations they were engaged in before. You hated all of them for it, viscerally, but remained quiet as a mouse in spite of your fury, your muscles cramping up, knots upon knots, with how tense you held yourself.

You had never, in all your unum in the castle, refused to obey an order from a skeksis, much less if that skeksis was the Emperor himself, whose word was law. Like vultures, the Lords zeroed on you, their stares burning, their throats itching with the impulse of scream and laugh and shriek in outrage —but their ruler was silent, contemplating what his next move would be, and so they had to be quiet as well.

Their composure made you sick, bodily too, and your stomach churned painfully.

“Ah,” conceded SkekSo, almost distractedly, his tone beyond innocence. There were a couple of hollow noises, and you knew he was tapping his fingers on his metal beak just from the sound alone, which was a terrible omen for your wellbeing. You gritted your teeth, expression petrified in terror, but did not dare move, terrified into stillness. “You can’t? Did I, by chance, hear you wrong?”

“I must not, sir; I could not-” you repeated, almost feverish, tightening your fists so hard you knew your nails would leave crescent moon marks on your palms. “It’s not fitting, it’s not proper, I cannot _look upon you_ -”

“Is this,” rose the voice of the Chamberlain from somewhere at your left, accompanied by a whish of water as his body shifted inside the brass tub he was resting in, a chirpy edge of genuine curiosity clinging from his words, “is this, hmm… cultural shock? Is this misunderstanding?”

“A misunderstanding?” repeated a couple of someones, and you located the General and the Ritual Master, surprise-surprise, near each other by you right. Hardly a coincidence, was it?

“I could not look at you, my Lord,” you insisted towards the Emperor, who had slouched in the simpler throne he had built in the room, sliding down enough for you to see the tip of his clawed toes and his tail. You bowed deeper, your spine straining in protest, but you ignored it, soberly aware your life was on the line. “It’s- You are the _Emperor_ , I cannot look at you as you- You are, my Lord, you are not wearing anything. I-I… It’s wrong, it’s _disrespectful_ ,” you babbled, tripping over your tongue nervously in order to get your point across as quickly as you could. “I would not dare dishonour you in such a way, my liege.”

A roar came behind you, and some of the Lords shook in their tubs, excited to see some violence. “Disrespectful? Disrespectful, you say?”

Who had clamoured his offence was none other than SkekZok, clear outrage oozing from his words. More water splashed around, rather ferociously, and you heard his feet hit the stone floor and then approach you, his steps rushed and strong. His hand came down like a hammer and wrapped around your throat from where it was bared at the ceiling, and you yelped but did nothing to defend yourself, only raising your hands to press your palms against your face lest you caught sit of something unwanted; there was checking out the Chamberlain, who was, all in all, your lover, but it was totally, dramatically different to find yourself in a place full of the alien equivalent of your bosses, all stark naked as the day they were born.

“Lord Ritual Master,” you whimpered, hunching your shoulders, “I beg you to understand-”

“How dare you, you foul creature, claim what skeksis are and are not? How dare you disobey your ruler, who has given you a clear order? Speak up, wretch!”

As if rendered useless, you shook your head side to side again, nearly sobbing. This situation was not the same as being with the Chamberlain –no privacy, all impositions, the surrounding roughness and aggressive demands, you were feeling dizzy and sick from it all. From day one you had been excused every single time from meeting the Lords in the bathing chamber for their informal assemblies, which they often did, because they had considered it unbecoming to welcome you in them.

This _intruding_ , this sudden, shameful invitation, was profoundly embarrassing, and you were never going to hear the end of it from your toxic brain when you went to sleep that night; this was meant to become a core memory for you to revisit until the day you finally perished, and what was even worse, you were going to get punished by the Lords for your lack of temperance as well. It was the worst; this was the worst thing ever and you could only pray the Emperor did not rather eliminate you for not listening to his command in front of his whole Court-

“Is this taboo?” asked the Chamberlain, gesturing vaguely with his talons towards himself and the other skeksis, and you recognized bubbling amusement under his sincere wonderment. When looking at him through the corner of your eyes you met his evilly glowing, deeply curious expression, like a child who had just been gifted a sweet in exchange for prank ideas. “Is nudity prohibited where human comes from?” 

“Yes,” you choked out, almost in a sob, the knot in your throat tight adding uncomfortableness to the unyielding grip the Ritual Master still had on you. “Yes, sir; seeing superiors when they are unclothed is unfathomable, it’s wrong, I just cannot-”

“Cease your hold on her, Ritual Master,” interrupted the Emperor before you could spiral into another ramble. The sharp, threatening claws around your neck lessened their pressure as they left you, but not enough for them to not produce angry, nearly bleeding rashes on your skin; you did not wriggle, did not shake the pain away, and hardly made a sound to complain about the abuse, your attention petrified to the stillness in wait for SkekSo’s voice to rise again. “Come hither, I shan’t repeat myself again.”

There was no kindness in the heartless statement but a foreboding neutrality that revealed nothing, which scared you more than his anger could have done. Peeking through the smallest gaps between your pressed fingers, you obeyed, forcing your legs to move until you were standing an arm away from his humbler throne, the distance you usually kept from him when in Court. It had to be acceptable, you could just not get any closer! You begged any deity who was willing to listen for the Emperor to grant you mercy.

SkekSo’ knuckles, callous and unprotected by his numerous rings, flickered your elbow, and you flinched in pain, so he did it again, harder. “Reveal your face; hands by your legs, lift head up. _Look at me._ ”

The instructions were unyielding, merciless and restrictive in their wording and tone –the Emperor was not to be insulted again.

Throat so dry you felt like you were swallowing rocks, you obeyed again, doing your fucking best to open your lids only when you were positive your immediate sight would be his features, frowning beak and piercing scowl. The expression you encountered was a wicked mixture between amusement and sour displeasure, and the ruler made the recognizable gesture with his hand meant for you to kneel, a motion you knew by heart; you followed again, your face boiling in all-consuming embarrassment and your gut frozen in abject anguish, your eyes fixed on his shoulders as the lowest point you dared glimpse at –clothed with a paper thin cape that curled back at his elbows, likely covering the vestigial arms on his back and exposing the rest of his nude body with the unconcern characteristic of the Lords and their gait.

You were confronted with the notion that no, skeksis bodies on their own were anything but arousing, too angular in some places while bloated in others, too alien and untraditional, too many fangs and quills and talons to be safe to pursue them safely, and you wondered what on Earth had made you then want the Chamberlain in the first place –it could not be his personality, he was as unpalatable as an opossum with rabies covered in cologne to lure people close and convince them it was alright to pet him. What the _fuck_ was wired in your brain to find the gargoyle bastard the sole creature on this planet you wanted to have sex with, you just did not know.

The Emperor, bare in front of you in all his glory, did nothing to arouse you, which you were grateful for, aware he would have been able to, stars forbid, _smell_ it.

“At last. This is Thra and we skeksis rule it, and as a member of my Court, as lowly as your station might be, you are to follow our customs,” grunted the Emperor, your mind supplying the unsaid _or else_ on its own, and it worked quite well to jerk you back to the present.

“Yes, my Lord. I beg your forgiveness, though I am not deserving of it,” you averted your gaze, mortified, resting it for a short second on a very interested SkekSil. The Chamberlain was as naked as SkekSo himself and had perched his elbows over the tub he was laying in like a nosy magpie, his full attention, and mockery, all for you. Your breath hitched, agonic in its effort, and you reddened even more if possible, a torture when paired with your clammy skin covered in cold sweat.

You did not know it was possible to feel so ashamed and you were not keen on it at all. 

The Emperor ignored your distraction, punishing it with a whip at your ankles from his tail, but did not acknowledge it in any other way. “You have been summoned to this chamber so you could be informed of the new developments regarding the oncoming gelfling celebrations. As has been agreed, you shall accompany the committee to Ha’rar in an unum time, human. Refer to the Ornamentalist first thing in the morrow so you can be fitted in a new set of garments. It will not do to have you dressed like a ragged podling in front of the All-Maudra and her Court, it would tarnish my image to flaunt you in such a deplorable state.”

SkekEkt waved at you from his chair, where he was smothering his beak in various ointments. His shrill voice made your ears hurt. “I assure none of us will be able to recognize her once I’m through with what I already have in mind!”

“Do not get ahead of yourself, not all has been decided!” chided in the Scientist. “Bear in mind this project is not yours alone to accomplish, there is a shared responsibility, as the Emperor himself had us know-”

“Oh, do be quiet, SkekTek! Do not take the joy of the task from me!”

You blinked in confusion, instinctually but foolishly glancing at the Chamberlain for further assistance in connecting the dots, the shrieking helping you none. Instead of providing an answer, SkekSil hummed knowingly, smugly, his previously timid demeanour caused by your dispute nowhere in sight, and he graced you with an astute grin, a cheerful whimper and a cocked head like a scrutinizing bird. The message was rather obvious: no matter of you were upset with him, he had already saved your ass today –a favour you had not expected, truth be told, but received either way–; you were on your own now. 

It felt somewhat wrong, knowing without doubt you were facing actual consequences while no one had your back, with no assurance that you could somehow find aid if you were to need it. It was positively terrifying. You wanted to vomit.

“A committee, Lord Emperor?” you said instead. “I thought it was only the Lord General who had to visit Ha’rar, I did not know a full delegation was to depart the castle.”

“You are mistaken,” all but growled SkekVar, to whom you avoided glancing at. The Ritual Master had returned to his aromatic bath, and you just did not want to add any more naked skeksis to your collection, those who rather seen you skinned alive than in the same room they occupied in particular. “There was a… a _change_ in schedule. The ten of us are traveling to the capital.”

“A joyous occasion!” Celebrated the Collector sarcastically, elbowing the Scientist rather brutally, who squeaked in answer, still engaged in a screaming competition against the Ornamentalist.

“Right you are!” If there was someone who appeared happy beyond condescendence, and well beyond sarcasm as well, that had to be the Lord Scroll Keeper. Practically swimming in a bathtub filled to the brim in flowers, his usual monocle and wiry glasses missing, he positively looked like a child before Christmas, so giddy he had no trouble ignoring the water plus pus mixture sloshing from the Collector’s own tub, immediate to his own, and SkekTek’s squawking. “Our fortune is incommensurable. The Emperor –in a magnificent show of sense, in my modest opinion– changed his mind just now, despite how _some_ ,” SkekOk did not point any accusatory fingers, but the Ritual Master grumbled all the same, “were opposed to the journey, thus the Emperor allowed us to debate the issue and they who opposed reason were rightfully outvoted.”

“Careful, you wimp, don’t go around throwing claims you cannot keep!”

The Scroll Keeper huffed at the General, his hiss barely audible, his feathers ruffled at the aggression, but remained nonchalant in his good humour. “Pah! Fighting, fighting, fighting all the time! There is more to this land that what merely meets the eye, General. Soon we will be able to witness it ourselves; tiny and dim-witted as gelfling are, they are still able to achieve wondrous things when heeding the teachings we bestowed upon them eras ago.”

You did not want to interrupt a conversation that had clearly left the topic at hand, that being the whole skeksis party leaving the castle to visit the gelfling capital up in the mountains, and dared risk a fleeting glance at the Emperor, who seemed to be beyond the disagreement between SkekOk and SkekVar and rather observed you back in exchange. Despite the humidity in the room, his inspection froze your blood, your face burning shamefully at the mere thought of lowering your gaze and encountering his crotch right in front of your eyes –he was not aroused, his genital and rear vents were basically invisible to the naked eye, _but_ _you were not going to look anyway_.

You were so anxious you thought you were going to faint.

“Certain behaviour is expected of you,” mussed SkekSo, and you nodded in agreement, not daring to contradict him further, your luck pushed enough this day. He tapped his beak again, thoughtful, sniffing dismissively at you, contemplating problems beyond your understanding. “There must be something to proclaim, a tale we can use to disguise those scars of yours… gelfling are all so touchy, they will probably throw a fit at the sight of them. The All-Maudra will be scandalised, she already saw you before you acquired such wounds; there will be questions.”

It went without saying how any gelfling who did not fulfil these unsaid expectations would meet an early death. However, leaving a trail of corpses in their wake did not do any favours for the false, however widely spread, benevolent reputation the skeksis basked in outside of the castle walls. The charade had to be, through whatever means necessary, undamaged.

“Beast could have done it,” interfered the Chamberlain, sending a meaningful but discreet glare towards the Ritual Master. “Mauled flesh so carelessly, they appear like markings of _brainless_ creature, yes? We could tell gelfling human disposed of it, earned the scars defending skeksis from a strange, lonely threat. So loyal, human is, risking her life to protect her Lords and the Crystal.”

“They will be terrified,” conceded the Emperor after a second of consideration, hardly objecting to the idea. “And they will be wary of prying as well, fearing it would be out of place to question her bravery. How pathetic,” he laughed.

“SkekSil finds it quite fitting, Emperor,” whimperer the prideful advisor, a fanged grin spreading over his inhuman visage.

SkekSo smiled back, just as crookedly. “Yes, Chamberlain, that shall be the story behind the cicatrizes; spread it first among the inhabitants of the castle, so they can carry the rumours with them during our little travesty. The less they wonder about, the better; we have left them in the dark long enough, have we not? What say you, little human?”

You bobbed your head up and down, assuring the ruler you understood what your duty and your role was. “Naturally, my Lord,” you mumbled shakily; “it shall be done as you command it.”

The Emperor nearly purred, satisfied you were done contradicting him. He petted your hair and then patted your cheek, a gesture born out of dismissal and not appreciation and much less affection. You flinched, fearing one of the touches would turn into a slap or a laceration. “Good. Now make haste of yourself, your presence is no longer required.”

You stood up, took a step back and bowed until your spine ached, mumbling your heartfelt gratitude for finally being able to flee the bathing chamber and the nude skeksis within its walls, and crossed the door as quickly as manners deemed polite, not wanting to make a mistake in protocol or offend the Emperor. What would happen if you finally gave him a reason to punish you –he was forgiving, the Lords said, but not merciful at all, and you the last thing you wished to experience was the unhinged extent of his rage.

You travelled the hallways in a daze, not believing you had survived that meeting almost unscathed; the only damage had been inflicted by the Ritual Master and his claws on your neck, a small price you were ready pay any day in exchange for your life.

The only place you desired to be, and where you staggered to, your heart painfully pounding like a wild horse in your chest, was the Chamberlain’s personal chambers. The doors were hefty, were adorned with a very pretty, just as sturdy, locking mechanism, and its walls were impregnated, somewhat, with a lulling sense of security you craved in gallons at the moment.

There was the unspoken rule that you would not lie on the bed –unless you were having cramps– if the Chamberlain was not already in it, and such precept was thrown through the window in lieu of your current mental disarray. You closed the massive, thick doors carefully and then flung your body on the mattress. You pulled the closest pillow to your chest with foreign desperation, smothering it in a death grip as you curled inwards, your knees nearing your head, your mind so agitated you felt like there was an angry swarm of bees caged inside your cranium. No matter how hard you tried, you could not breathe, like there was not enough air in the world to satisfy the urgent, freaked demand from your lungs, your system going insane –there was blood pounding in your ears, your head throbbing, your chest constrained and your muscles twitching violently in stress.

Since on arrived on Thra and despite the many, many horrifying experiences you had gone through, this was the first time you were having a legit, honest to God panic attack, tears prickling that the corners of your eyes as you rubbed your face against your inert victim in order to make them disappear, hoping the fabric would soak up your agony as well. It did not happen, and you were left with a ball of heavy misery weighting down your stomach, knots upon knots in your guts, your mind dizzy and swimming in fright because you had been so close-

_Fuck, you had been so close to death with your stupid show of puritanism._

Had it not been for the Chamberlain raising his voice to excuse your out-of-line behaviour, there was no doubt you would be missing, at the very least, a few fingers in payment for your disobedience. The Emperor had seemed so eager, so ready to make you compensate your insolence –he did not allow his brethren a single slip of tongue, neither in public nor certainly in private either, why would you be different in that regard? Why would he have clemency for someone that was nothing but a woeful pet, one he could replace with a simple snap of fingers if he so chose?

He did not have to. He could had had you executed in a second and grant your insignificant role in his Court to the next gelfling and you would be none the wiser. You would be gone, and that was it.

You owed SkekSil a big one.

That was how he found you, hours after dinner, violently hyperventilating into a pillow you were strangling as if it were your mortal enemy, coiled into yourself and shivering hysterically, not quite sobbing but certainly not collected either, your nerves shot in misery, your mind dangling in a limbo between consuming distress and the most detached calmness that came when one walked the end of the rope.

You did not expect any kind of recognition from the Chamberlain, emotional outbursts well beyond his field of expertise and not at all a matter he bothered acknowledging; outside the bed, your relationship with him was formal and detached, with brief moments of playfulness of which purpose was to get back under the sheets for some lascivious frolicking. There was no lost love between you, just utilitarianism and lust; disregarding your current feelings, the dynamic suited you perfectly, as you desired not to form any kind of attachment with someone you were positive would stab you in the back if the stars aligned just right.

Oblivious to your inner turmoil and your fatalist musings, the Chamberlain disrobed wordlessly, his movements accompanied with the cadence of his usual whimper as he abandoned his formal clothes in a pile on the floor. He padded softly to his side of the bed to crawl on the mattress, sitting not on his side but in the middle of the vast softness for a change.

You clenched your body, the palms of your hands pressed furiously against your eyes to disguise your stubborn tears and coiled upon yourself defensively. Paying no mind to your hurting, SkekSil stretched an arm and laid his long-fingered hand on your head, tangling his talons lightly on the locks, and then trailed the tips down your neck, your back, then back up in a path you did not really notice but which helped you to unfurl your twisted muscles, nonetheless.

With your panting ragged and excruciating, SkekSil leaned in, his gaunt body not quite touching yours –you were hyperaware of his closeness, of every diminutive shift in the bed, and twitched warily in accordance with them, like a wounded animal waiting for the unexpected and ready to lash out–, and patted your back at regular intervals, filling the air with a profound purring vibration. Slowly, so painstakingly slowly, you noticed the pattern he had set with his pats and attempted to follow it with your breathing, first with little success, though it gradually increased as the drowning thrum around you deepened, the waves of an invisible sea lulling you to reluctant calmness.

Once you were as relaxed as he believed he could make you without provoking you, the Chamberlain withdrew and resumed his nightly routine, tucking himself in bed with ease, his old, centenarian bones cracking here and there until he lied in his preferred position as of late, his back towards you, his limbs tucked in to hog the blankets against his bony chest.

His purring did not cease in spite of the distance between your bodies.

You waited until your chest stopped feeling like it would implode, taking air in deep, regular intervals and rubbing frustratedly at your clammy, disgusting skin that still felt colder that it would had been natural. Without wanting to think too much about it, defeat somewhat nagging at the back of your skull like a mosquito with a pike, you twisted around and stretched your arm, looping it around the Chamberlain’s torso so you could drag him over the sheets to your own chest.

He had been benevolent with you, assisted you in your distress and, in general, shielded you from most harm during his daily squabbles –of which he was the main enabler, but that was missing the point–, and yet the Chamberlain was not expecting from you any kind of affection; under normal circumstances, you were sparse with such gestures, rightfully wary of giving away any weakness that could, and would, be exploited against you. Now, your agitated breaths brushed his long neck, your trembling hands doing their best to conceal their shaking, as you cradled him close.

There was something touching, he had to admit, in your tenacity.

No matter how he planned to use it for his benefit, his mind already at work, SkekSil had not anticipated your approach, and while there was no tangible tension in his body, his quills were raised in surprise. The only thing saving his face after how you had startled him was the habit of cuddling, of which he greedily took advantage whenever he could, and his muscles quickly relaxed in warm familiarity. Like a boat that finally finds port, his tail instinctually reached back to coil around one of your legs, from knee to ankle, like he had always done when he requested physical attention.

The coldness in his hard, rough skin did not exactly feel right, not quite comfortable to lie against, but the Chamberlain had another say in the matter now that he had been given _carte blanche_ , and immediately pushed back to press the whole extension of his spine following the line of your body, soaking in your corporal heat as if you were a sunstone. Once he was where he wanted to be, his neck bowed down as to nuzzle his beak to the crook of your elbows and your forearms, his purring changed, not in depth or rhythm, but instead it stopped feeling as mechanical and turned more satisfied instead, more comfortable and jovial.

You slid your other arm under your pillow to curl it around his chest as well, the fur atop his shoulders brushing your chin and realised he smelt like flowers and fruit and damnation; you were tired of fighting a war you knew you could had not won in the end no matter what, tired of trying to swim counter-current when all you wanted was to sail away as long as you could keep your head above the unwelcoming waters. You were giving up, you were _done_.

You held the smaller, scrawnier skeksis a tad tighter, inhaled and sighed deeply, and willed your mind to rest.

Eventually, when you had almost drifted to sleep, the Chamberlain spoke, his words loud in the dead oppression of the night as he dragged you back to a state of semi-consciousness. In excuse for his words, his voice muffled as his face was buried in your arms, his secondary arms reached and crammed themselves by your chest, cosily nestled in the tight space between your bodies.

“Emperor would have not taken human’s life,” he said. 

“Not immediately, my Lord; he has to show me off in Ha’rar first,” you rebutted, no grief in your voice. There were no pretences about what your role was, just defeated acceptance. SkekSil did not correct you, aware any consolation would be meaningless in its falseness.

The Chamberlain wiggled in your arms and twisted his neck so he could peek at you, drowsiness clouding his eyes; is tone was confident yet small when he asked: “Doesn’t human want to visit the gelfling capital? SkekSil thought it a good apology for his incivility.”

“An apology, sir?”

“Hmm, yes. Fitting, is not?”

And it clicked. You were so dumb and oblivious, holy shit. “You were the one to convince the Emperor to take the whole delegation out of the castle? Of course, yes, no, never mind that; no one else could have done it,” you grumbled to yourself, chewing disbelief by the spoonful. He was backed up by at least two other skeksis who wished to attend the celebration, plus those who wanted to cross the Ritual Master and the General for whatever reasons, _plus_ the Emperor himself and his efforts to remind the rogue Lords of their place at his command. It was a really easy stunt to pull if one cared to know what made the skeksis tick –for the Chamberlain, this tiny uprising was child play. You huffed. “Why go through the effort, my Lord?”

“Human must feel copped up,” shrugged SkekSil amiably, covering his manipulation with a thick layer of bashfulness, “she is so very young despite her size… Skeksis stay in castle because we know all of Thra that is worth knowing, travels are functional matters, no pleasure.”

“Two birds with one stone, too,” you added. “You anger the General as well, having him take me, and he cannot protest because if the Emperor himself is assisting-”

“Yes; not easy feat, but Chamberlain can do many things,” he snickered.

“This trip is a good chance for him to preen and show me off as a token of power; if a creature from _beyond the Silver Sea_ is willing and ready to risk its life for the skeksis… It cements their view of you. Gelfling will think I adore the Lords of the Crystal just as much and their faith and servitude is strengthened by that belief.”

“Smart human,” hummed the Chamberlain, and then giggled, his lanky chest undulating under your palms like an ocean of mirth, “smarter than _General_.”

“Yes, smart human,” was your grumble, and then shook your head. “The Emperor must know you are using me as leverage to up Lord SkekVar, Chamberlain, I have no doubt about it.”

“He might, he might not. Suspicions notwithstanding, Emperor listens to SkekSil, obliges with petitions, makes many skeksis happy with a simple gesture –keeps peace among his brethren. It matters not if he knows there are plans under the surface as long as those align with his own,” he told you flippantly. “Emperor is angry with others who dare undermine his authority and speak against his will; he cares not if SkekSil pulls a few threads here and there.”

You did not answer, your mind exhausted and ready to sleep, but left a last conscious thought before shutting down, that you hoped the Chamberlain was right, for both your sakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there was no porn today, just plot and angst...  
> We'll return to the scheduled nasty for chapter 3, I promise! Meanwhile, bask in some drama :D
> 
> Where do you think the story is going from here? An theories you would care to share with me? I appreciate them so much!


	3. Tempered in Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ornamentalist has plans. The Gourmand has plans. So does the Emperor, the Ritual Master and the General.  
> The Chamberlain, of course, also has a plan.  
> No one ever listens to the Scientist.  
> You are angry and now you've made a new enemy because you are an idiot and no one bothered to let you know as much before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been... more than two weeks for sure, but I'm here at last!  
> And I bring you smut and plot to compensate for my absence :D

You awoke in a room drowned with darkness, on the Chamberlain’s bed but somehow incredibly uncomfortable despite the softness of the sheets and the welcoming familiarity of the drapes over the structure; there was a pressure on your chest so strange and real you went back to the previous night, your mind spiralling through another panic attack after your subconscious relived the stressing events in the bathing chamber. Like coals in a fire, the Emperor’s unforgiving expression burned bright in your mind. It was also incredibly warm in the chamber too, which was unbearable enough considering the mild weather on Thra even during winter, and the first thing you did was groan and wiggle, cursing the hellish temperature, trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling off –you were not built for sweaty season.

You forgot you were not alone in the room.

In answer to your grouching came a purring so deep it shook your ribs, and you noticed someone was breathing in your face, the dry puffs of air helping in your mission to return to the world of the living. You found yourself face to beak with the Chamberlain, his green eyes drowsily half-open, his body spread atop yours like a greedy blanket soaking up heat, his limbs thoroughly tangled in yours as if on purpose. At some point in the night, you must had rolled on your back and your caretaker had followed suit like a leech, and now you had an arm and a leg hanging from the bed and loosing circulation and the others twisted around and under the skeksis Lord, your hand somehow nestled between the sharp quills on his back as his weak secondary arms clutched it, and his tail coiled from your knee to your ankle like a snake.

SkekSil hummed, a provoking smile weaselling its way on his face. “Awake at last, human has to meet with friend SkekEkt today.”

Oh, you had not forgotten; you craned your neck up, your bones snapping with the motion, and then abandoned your efforts, letting your head sink in the pillow tiredly instead of uselessly battling gravity. The bed you were on was a mattress-shaped Heaven and none of the Three Sisters were peeking out of the horizon yet, which should mean you were allowed to dawdle and waste your time in a beautiful doze, hoping in and out of sleep. To your comfort’s chagrin, however, the Emperor had given specific, pressing instructions for your morning and you were still toeing the dangerous line of disobedience, where you very much rather not be after your fatal fiasco the previous day. You left out a throaty sound of disagreement with the world.

SkekSil laughed at your antics, a raspy sound almost completely drowned by his purrs. You grumbled and huffed, unamused. “You’re crushing me, my Lord.”

“Chamberlain’s weight is noting human cannot take, yes?” he intoned smugly and nestled closer, dragging his body against yours.

Of course, he would not sacrifice his own comfort in favour of yours, you already knew that, but you asked anyway in hopes his benevolence would raise its head –he had been pulling some out-of-character stunts lately, so you took your off-chance for the token prize of nothing. Appreciating the touch, his quills rattled between your fingers where you had buried them, excited and jittery at the affectionate contact; yet SkekSil was more focused on making fun of you than considering all the ways you could take revenge on him if you dared. He did have a track record of besting you and your seemingly innocent strategies, a tally no one was keeping count of but him –and you, apparently.

Too bad you could not just let his nagging go.

Ignoring his taunts, you scratched the thick fur covering his shoulders and back, careful not to get prickled as you dragged your nails across his back. It was a foreign touch, rather intimate for your standards, and the Chamberlain first tensed, wiry muscles coiled, unfamiliar with the motion, and then turned into a pile of mush, his unease melting under the generous attention. You could not see it from your position, but you were willing to bet all your scarce possessions his tail was wagging, the muted sound of it hitting the mattress between your feet giving away his enthusiasm. Your hubris went through the roof.

“As much enjoyment as I’m getting, I must be on my way, my Lord,” you said, and there was frank mirth in your voice.

The Chamberlain pressed his jaw harder to your sternum, the very tip of his beak scraping the rough fabric covering your chest and snuggled as much as he could while trying not to move at the same time, his eyes fluttering closed, a stupid smile on his crooked mouth that spoke volumes of his willingness to shift and free you from his weight. “Stay.”

“I have duties I must attend to, sir.”

“Human would not dare disobey Lord of the Crystal, would not push Chamberlain off her, would she? So very cruel. At present time, duties lie here within this chamber.”

You rolled your eyes at his closed eye-lids, your mind still drowsy from sleep but recognizing rather quickly when you were being manipulated –unlike the veiled threats the Chamberlain make to his fellow Lords, when he often played the card of the innocent and friendly, his strategy with you was plain different: there was no cloth covering your eyes now that you were a tool of his and you could see him for what he was, so instead of wasting his time lying he much rather address what you wanted and bribe you into doing his biddings whenever you had a say in the matter. Most often than not, he hinted at what you wanted and assure you he would prevent consequences from reaching you; so far he had proven himself effective and thus his tricks worked just fine.

You really did not want to vacate the bed, comfortable in a darkness that seemed frozen in time, a respite after all the fighting you had been facing. Subsequently, you would not push the Chamberlain off you, he had you pegged right, but it was not for lack of skill or strength; he was lighter than you, his wide hips and prominent stomach the main parts of his bulk, and while you did know shoving his smaller body aside would be a doddle, you had just stopped quarrelling with him, and he was being soft for a change, and you did not feel like ruining that peaceful lull.

You could, however, do other things to get the upper hand.

Lifting your hanging arm, which had started tingling like a glitching television from lack of blood flow, you shook it to wake it and then wrapped its length around the prickly quills, rolling over to the middle of the bed and tucking your knees up so you would not crush your chargé but not exactly doing any extra effort to prevent him from feeling the mass of your body pinning him down. You knew he liked how you were bigger than him –perhaps because he liked to play with fire and he assumed his superiority over you kept him from harm, perhaps because his ego reached heights beyond the top of your head–, and it was proven true over again when SkekSil yelped his delight, his hooded eyes shooting open, instantly awake and ready for action. His claws found solid purchase on your arms, bracing himself against the sudden movement, massaging the muscle under his palms with a purr as he nestled further on the sheets, shifting to ease his chaffed arms more comfortably and finding no reason to oppose to the new position whatsoever.

You let him shudder a little, his shorter legs hooking around your hips derisively, and dragged your face on his chest as he had done, mouthing at his hard, rough skin with just enough teeth to feel his tail tighten in its hold around your leg, a thrill escaping from the Chamberlain’s throat as he basked in the aggressive affection. You like him like this, open and willing, and your mind conjured the memories of the first time you were together, how he had been so indulgent and ready to explore what you had to offer despite his crippling mistrust and need for control. You had taken him then and, by the sight of his blown pupils, you would take him now without resistance.

If you were capable of it, you would be purring just like he was, you were so pleased. You had always thought unfair how single-minded and obsessive he got when the adamant impulse of marking you flickered on in his brain; you could see the appeal of it now though –you bit harder, knowing but uncaring the bruises would not show up or, if they did, they would be covered by layers and layers of clothes anyway. Regardless of if your art on his skin would be visible or not, you were certain your scent and tarriance definitely _would_ , left behind to linger and mix with his perfumes as a loud declaration of your position and private activities.

It could be the perfect, silent smack in the face for those Lords of the Crystal who mocked you and enjoyed your embarrassment, a beautiful middle finger for the Ritual Master in particular, a reminder that you were under the Chamberlain’s protection once again and, as a final treat for your own, a romp to settle your shot nerves wouldn’t hurt you none.

Under you and offering himself wiggled SkekSil in all his naked glory, a particularity you did not share, still cladded in the servant clothes you had worn the previous day —it was a trivial matter though, one that could be solved without much fuss, and he promptly indulged south on your body, long-fingered hands traveling from the nape of your neck down to your hips, fidgeting to find the hem so he could pull your robes and throw them away somewhere.

You fought his explorations, racing his hands, and pulled the hem of the tunic over your head to trap it behind your neck, not caring how it would wrinkle, but did nothing beyond exposing your front to free yourself of the bunched fabric, ignoring the evil glint in the skeksis’ eyes who wanted the garment all the way off. It would make no difference, but the filed was uneven if both of you were not naked, and you knew your little, meaningless stunt would irritate him all the same.

“I shan’t be late to meet with the Lord Ornamentalist,” you repeated, merrily grounding your hips against the Chamberlain’s, knowing if you were to check you would find his genital vent glistening in arousal despite your defiance. Your humping appeased the offense rather effectively, and you engaged in the sight of he who had caused you so much deliberate trouble wriggling at your mercy, his pleasure in your hands to grant or take away. It was mouth-watering to have someone who thrived on control give it away so easily in exchange for pleasure, and somewhat flattering that, from all of the creatures he had to choose from, it was you he had invited to his bed.

Of course, it was also very convenient and opportune that he had moulded you to his liking, nurturing our favour unum after unum and honing you into an almost perfect will to abide by his wishes and caprices but that neither here nor there. 

As if defying the whole point of your more dominant position, you felt a clawed hand daringly grab a good squeeze of your ass, and then use said grip as leverage to arching upwards at you in retaliation, and the Lord beneath you moaned openly, his jaw dropping to free his tongue so he could lick the perspiration off your skin. Your mouth clicked, your frown scrunching into an unceremonious squint at his refusal to give up trying to take the lead or have you oblige his provocations –the Chamberlain mewled in wanton challenge, curling his face in a smirk and giving you a provocative ogle, asking if you would rise to the occasion. 

You narrowed your eyes and cocked your head, considering if you would. Whatever you had in mind for your morning, it was not rutting the Chamberlain into oblivion, but that train of thought derailed as quickly as SkekSil pulled you down, his humping gentler and encouraging as he ravished your neck with his unnatural, wet tongue that was just too flexible. He looked positively delectable where he was, offering himself for some early-morning ravishing.

 _Fine_ , you could work with that.

To acknowledge and reward his cooperation, a luxury you were gifted few and far between, you freed one of your hands that were cradling him to caress his body, using both your nails and the soft pads of your fingers to stimulate him as you went until you found his breasts, where you reined in your ardour in favour of letting him plunge up to offer his flesh to your giving touch. It was so much better, so _gratifying_ when it was him who surrendered himself, when you did not have to struggle to gain the right to satisfy him, when it was him who gave you permission before you had to ask for it.

Whether he wanted it that way or not, it made you feel wanted and appreciated, like you were allowed to be more than a pawn for a few minutes and you could just take and take and take and not give anything in return.

SkekSil hissed at you, aware of the implicit powerplay like he always was but giving in to it in exchange for the pleasure –a dedition you would have to pay back eventually–, his breathing growing into short pants, his skin aflame where your fingers touched, warmth pooling inside him, his idle hand finding your chest to grope and indulge himself in the weight and softness of your flesh. Your nipple hardened against his palm, firm and welcoming and Thra, he could drown himself in you. His secondary arms wormed from under him and fisted your hair and pulled back at the locks, a forceful yank that kept your head from his neck, where you had been busy attempting a love bite. Your lips were red and swollen and wet, and SkekSil felt himself faint, his heart beating loudly inside his chest.

“Shameless,” he gasped, a word trapped between an insult and a moan.

You gruffed under your breath, something along the lines of how _that_ was the point of what you were doing, but instead of raising your voice to sass him, you took the hand fondling his tits, racked your nails down his own sets of nipples, dark and tender, and finally reached his genital vent, which was, as you had tough, already dilated, deliciously lubricated with arousal and with the three heads of his cocks pushing through to emerge.

You licked your lips and saw them throb.

You needed no invitation to assist them, of course, the roots of your hair on fire with how the Chamberlain was pulling at your locks while you slipped your fingers beyond his opening and encouraged the shafts with some delicate thrusting. It took you a couple of tries in the very narrow, very warm and slick space, your fingers curling and pumping sweetly in order to avoid scratching his sensitive flesh with your nails, your efforts guided with heartfelt moans and SkekSil’s desperate grabs for something, _anything_ , he could use to ground himself. Caring little for the bedding, you devoured his voice and purrs like he was singing your praises.

Once you were faced with the three pulsating shafts right in front of your face, your hand dripping with his arousal, your neck aching from the strained posture you back was bend in, you riveted the skeksis with the simple motion of raising your hand and circling the main knot, your thumb finding a velvety target in the heart shape of the thick, middle cock’s head. SkekSil pupils were blown huge, dark and hungry in carnal anticipation.

“Not shameless, _serviceable_ ,” you corrected the Chamberlain, the words leaving your mouth slowly as you used your palm to press his cocks towards his bulging gut; you shifted your knees on the mattress, bringing them higher and closer to his chest, and freed your head from his punishing grip, slamming his claw down before curling over him like a threatening beast. As you wanted, the new position trapped the exotically shaped dicks against your own navel, the ridges and knots distinctive, satiny and warm where they rested, and you felt them throb in fervour. You smiled at him, sly and willing to sweeten him up: “That’s what I’m here for, my Lord.”

“Yes,” panted SkekSil fervently. At this moment you could have sold him a lorry and he would have agreed to anything as long as you kept yourself on him and _did not stop_. He bucked at the contact, his arms shooting up to increase the pressure of your body on his, his legs tense like the strings of a violin and anchoring his feet eagerly over your bottom. Lost in the daze and the cloud of lust, and angry at how you were still so adamantly clothed while he was left bare and drowning in his own desire, your composure a betrayal of the highest calibre, the skeksis tore the tunic wrapped behind your neck, discarding the now useless fabric in a calculated fit of passion until all that was left of it were pitiful rags hanging from your arms. He smiled sweetly, his green eyes hooded. “Better now, however.”

You grunted, your mood contained but just barely –you liked that robe, and the bastard _knew_ it–, and punished him with your nails on his neck and shoulders, an action that did not give you the satisfaction of seeing him bleed but provided a much better erotic visual with the Chamberlain unhinged, sweaty and flushed, his jaw hanging lose and his eyes misty and unfocused with lust, his efforts and cries only meant for you to get closer to him in any way he could make it happen. His claws reached your skin with ease, but you did not feel it dampen with the wetness of blood, nor was the pain overwhelming or even remarkable.

You wanted him lost, you wanted him craving what you could give him, you wanted an excuse to pay for his assistance at keeping you alive and breathing and you also wanted to proof you could fuck him stupid in spite of how he boasted about being the smartest, most in control skeksis of his brethren. You wanted to _ruin_ him –and yet, you could not help your admiration of his reaction and how he had remembered to watch his malice and instincts to claim and harm, knowing you were wary of actual pain during sex because of your encounter with the Ritual Master. SkekSil had hardly half a mind and he had still managed to remind you both of his capabilities and your place at his beck and call and _why_ you were there.

You had to give it to him, he was _good_ at the game.

This time, your experience with death still fresh in your mind and this frolicking meant more to distract you than for the sake of sexual gratification, you decided he could have his win. He had earned it, after all.

Changing your frown with a huff, still unamused and mourning the loss of your tunic, you groped his thighs around your middle and rutted against him, giving him no window to brace himself. Mercilessly, you undulated your hips and evened your breathing to get more control on how your body covered his, his cocks pulsating between you as they engorged with even more arousal, the Chamberlain’s head snapping towards the pillow as he wailed and mewled every time your thrusted forward. The position did nothing for you, your nethers nowhere near where the action was happening, and while you were unmistakably turned on just by the sight and sound, you guessed you could go without an orgasm this time, why not, when his eyes like blackholes dragged you with muted pleas and not so mute desperate calls of your name.

“More?” you asked, his voice ringing loud in your ears, deafening in its need, and you felt him nod fierily against your shoulder, his claws traveling aimlessly over your back, tugging your hair and grabbing whatever fleshy part of you he could reach, his thighs tensing and feet pushing down on you to increase the speed of your rocking. You fought his feet pressing on your bottom, slowing the rhythm down until it was barely a light friction, and you took advantage of his frustration to grope his legs and hips, stilling his motions to rut against you and take control back. “I need to hear it, my Lord. _More?_ ”

“Yes!”

You raised only to pump his cocks, gather precum to smother them, and returned to press down, feeling your hairline dampening with your sweat. Bracing on your elbows and hunching your shoulders, you manhandled the lower part of his body upwards, ignoring his surprised whelp, until he coiled his legs where you wanted them to give you better leverage. And then you humped away, pistoning your hips down with hardly a respite, relentless until you could feel the skin of your own stomach burning with the friction, his knots unbearably hot where they pressed against you.

The Chamberlain begged for more, for speed, for touches, for your body covering on his so closely he could surely had felt the beating of your heart inside his own chest, and from his mouth escaped a string of lauds and sweet nothings, songs of appraisal that you knew were a spur of the moment, but which stroked your ego like a fat cat, nonetheless. You, as it was natural, complied with great pleasure, paying no mind to how your muscles cramped up in effort or how you were losing your grip on the bed, or the rash burns of the sheets on your knuckles, elbows and knees, and shifted on your toes to keep the ramming going for as long as you physically could.

You would let the castle burn down before stopping, you mind set only with one scorching purpose in it –to make the Chamberlain come so hard he blacked out. Like a warhorse clad with blinkers, your goal waited ahead, and it was up to you to achieve it. You were going to fuck him so good they would be able to hear it down in the kitchen, _god fucking damnit_.

Finally, with an inhuman sound you had yet to hear from the Chamberlain, he came, his seed spilling and smothered between his bulky middle and your own abdomen, and still you kept rocking on him, more calmly, until his voice became less of a needy plea and more of a keen whine of overstimulation. You would have plopped down on him, sweating like a sinner in church, if not for the pricking knowledge you would crush him with your weight –he might had liked it when you used your size to seduce him, but you were sure he would become much less agreeable if you smothered him flat like a pancake.

Paying no mind to your state of disarray, the stench of sex clinging to your bodies like another blanket, the mattress and the obvious rips on the sheet the skeksis had inflicted on them when out of mind, SkekSil stretched an arm and held onto you, his pants warm and familiar on your neck. His breathing was wild and agitated, only interrupted, rather abruptly, to choke purrs from his throat, what his body wanted and needed in a fight to prevail.

 _You could say you had succeeded in your mission, rather thoroughly too_ , you thought smugly.

You took a deep breath in, out of it yourself, and sort of deaf because of the hammering of your heartbeat in your ears, and you glanced at the window, groaning at the unique light from the first of the Three Sisters lightening the chamber, if meekly, still indomitable and unabated. With the resignation of someone how had predicted their misdeeds and their consequences and still enacted them, you realised you were late.

You sighed, hanging your head back onto the pillow, wallowing in a somewhat satisfied but foreboding defeat. “The Sisters are out… The Emperor will have my head.”

It took a good minute for the Chamberlain to gather his scattered mind, and the first thing he did after that was hum like the annoying, overgrown vulture gargoyle he was. You were charmed. To further your dismay, he rolled his green eyes at you, not even bothering to conceal the disdain in them; he very obviously thought your worries were ridiculous. “Human is meeting friend SkekEkt today, not Emperor. Relieved from attendance at the Court in favour of wardrobe preparations. And Ornamentalist still sleeps.”

You gave him a sideways glance, wondering how he could know that, and your mind travelled through paths of skeksis-on-skeksis intercourse and how violent that had to be. You shuddered, making a face he laughed at. “He does, now, my Lord?”

The Chamberlain gave you a _look_ , laughed at you a tad more, the sound loud and resounding, and then pushed you off him with little delicacy. “Enough time for human to break her fast, not to ask questions that won’t be answered.”

* * *

From there on, your morning turned less and less enjoyable by the hour. It did not amuse you.

“Thra forgive!” wailed the Scientist for the third time in an hour, raising his arms outragedly at you. You winced at the volume. “You are a shameless creature with no respect for your superiors, that you are! You overgrown, obscenely-fingered gelfling!”

“I am no gelfling, my Lord,” you replied pleasantly, more than used to the Scientist’s fleeting fits of rage; you knew he was all bark and no bite when he lacked the upper hand on someone –a circumstance he was subjected to quite often considering his disgraced status among the skeksis. Since advantages he had yet to gain on you, the worst he could do was to curse you three ways from Sunday, which you were alright letting him get away with, his prattling more amusing that annoying once one got used to it.

“No respect either, I see! There shall come the day for atonement and then you will regret your-!”

“Hush now, SkekTek, you are giving me the most horrid headache,” interrupted SkekEkt, his bejewelled, perfumed form swiftly dancing over to you to again, golden, massive scissors in his hand, to try and get you out of the last layer of clothing that covered your modesty.

You knew for a fact skeksis were physically strong, but what the Ornamentalist was capable of was well beyond your imagination. Skeksis had to weigh at least fifty kilos the lightest, that one probably being the Lord Scroll Keeper, and then you had to add the absurd weight of their robes, which had to be about the same… and yet the Lords paraded around with no more difficulty than their advanced age. You had to add another ten kilos purely of jewels and brocades SkekEkt decorated himself with every day. Despite all of that, the skeksis moved around rather swiftly for someone his age, and you had to admit you were quite impressed.

And while impressed by his adamancy, you were also certainly not amused at SkekEkt’s new sewing implement and his eagerness to get it working on your robes.

You swatted the Ornamentalist’s hands from your body as politely as you could, mentally rolling your eyes so hard your brain hurt, and tugged your scant clothes, freshly changed after SkekSil had destroyed them, to resettle them as they should be.

Eyeing the scissors, and the skeksis wielding them, warily, you glanced back to the Scientist; you knew SkekTek was grouching not about your deferential sass but because of the Chamberlain, who had, apparently, showed up for the first meal of the day surrounded by a cloud of musk, sweat and sex to spice up his usual flowery perfume.

As it was natural, the Lords of the Crystal had been muted in their critics, prudent to cross the invisible line that would make SkekSil change his friendly disposition into a rampageous one, but livid nonetheless at his audacity. It did not take an hour for the chinwag to reach the kitchens through the podlings, who were eavesdropped by the gelfling guards, and you had caught the news almost by accident.

While the commotion was what you had aimed for when you had lavished him from head to toe, you had also expected him to clean himself and try to mask it some.

You had overlooked the Chamberlain’s chronical need to stir up trouble in his wake.

Instead of doing what was logic and leaving your scent as a subtle trail, SkekSil had proceeded with the whole ravaged, fucked-into-a-limp stunt, and you had to admire him for his gait, what the hell. Some balls of steel he had, dancing into the feasting room where his political enemies waited for the right chance to skin him alive, covered in the arousal of their target –a rightful slap in the face, and not one the other Lords could complain about in the open, their fear to reveal their own cards too overpowering to take action.

Would your cheek backfire in your direction, could his gloating touch you in any way? You did not any proof to think it would, but neither you doubted it, as everything your caretaker roped you into always came back one way or another, vengefully at that too. Your only consolation had to be the second-hand point of sorts, if anything, not even present in the Court, and that had its own merits too.

Listening to the Lord Scientist slut-shame you was not one of them –your skankery had been premeditated, well-thought and even more expertly executed, there was no room for shame in your conceit. You were only paying him attention with half an ear, more entertained with how, despite his appalled discourse, he spluttered when you looked directly at him, and always happened to find something very interesting to do across the Ornamentalist’s chamber, as far from you as he physically could be in a place positively crammed with bolts of fabric and any and all trinkets imaginable.

“You should be ashamed!”

Despite of your pride, you bowed your head at his wrinkly scowl, but uttered no apologies to excuse your behaviour. “Yes, Lord Scientist.”

The Ornamentalist, whose flaming red hair was spectacular in the morning light and also had obstinance to spare in your humble opinion, charged against your modest clothing, this time scissors-free. He grunted indignantly when you would not let him undress you bare so he could measure you appropriately, in his giggling words, and you dodged his charge as discreetly as you could.

You tched, uncomfortable, and swatted his bejewelled hands away one more time, and he redirected his pesky attention towards a very ruffled SkekTek. “Oh, would you keep it down already, SkekTek! Begone to your dark cave of critters if you are here to be a whinger.”

“The Emperor commanded me to be here, and here I shall stay until my purpose is brought to completion.”

“Then stop beating around the bush and get to _work!_ I didn’t have those grimy podlings hale that hideous machine of yours into my chambers so you could loiter here.”

The machine in question, an ugly thing a team of twelve podling and half a dozen of gelfling guards had to haul up several flights of very narrow stairs, rested by a corner of the chamber like a dormant monster of metal, its sharp angles contrasting atrociously with the sumptuous environment in ways that made you want to look away. You did not know what the invention did, why it was up in the Ornamentalist’s chamber or why was the Scientist himself roaming the upper floors of the castle when he rarely left his laboratory on a good day. More often than not, if any of the Lords required something from SkekTek, they made their way to the Chamber of Life on their own, stated their demands, and left as quickly as they could, repelled by the darkness in the room and the agonic cries of trapped beasts.

The nature of this relationship suited the Scientist rather nicely too, for he had little patience when it came to entertaining the visits and much rather keep himself apart from the scheming that transpired in Court.

“I would love to,” sneered SkekTek, petulantly waving his arms and flapping his long, heavy sleeves, “but I need measurements for that. So, you, you foul, indecent, despicable fiend, raise your arms and disrobe straight away in order for us to proceed on schedule.”

The neutral visage you had just crafted on your face twitched. SkekEkt approached you, his claws ready to grab you, but speedily stepped back when you squared your shoulders and straightened your spine, ceasing to slouch like you usually did around the skeksis Lords so they would find you less threatening. You had enough of his shenanigans, you had decided, despite whatever bee had slipped into his bonnet, you were _not_ getting naked, and that was final.

The effect to the change in your posture was immediate, and both skeksis, notoriously shorter than you even if their psychical strength was greater, grumbled and took some reticent, wary steps from you.

“I don’t see how me stripping would help upkeep the schedule, my Lord.”

“Well, it does,” the Ornamentalist clipped as he gave you a slimy smile full of fangs, not even bothering to feign embarrassment. “If you don’t mind, I would like this better if you stopped putting up this ridiculous fight.”

“I do mind, sir,” you lashed out with as much politeness as you could gather, “as I see no reason at all for me to bare myself when you could take the numbers with me still dressed. I’ve seen you achieve that many a time before today.”

“How dare you dictate how _I_ should partake in my craft, you cumberworld, fopdoodle of a creature!” The Ornamentalist hissed, his beak curled upwards in an ugly, threatening smile dripping with poison, and despite the make-up, jewels and layers over layers of luxurious clothes and posh words, a façade he loved to display, you were shown the creature within, his eyes sparkling ravenously at your defiance.

It was not a pretty image, and you would lie if you said you were not the least bit intimidated, but you had also faced the Chamberlain at his ugliest and, well, you were putting your foot down.

You usually went out of your way to please the Lords of the Crystal, not only motivated by the threat of punishment if you did not follow their orders but because of your own personal want to make yourself as amenable as you could in order not to have any more enemies in your collection; this time, after the fantastic morning you had since waking up, you refused to bow down to the irrational, disrespectful commands.

You had had it with SkekEkt and his inner struggle to make peace with the Chamberlain and his need to consume gossip for drama’s sake.

That morning you had won the marathon of your life from the Chamberlain’s chambers to the bathing room, to the kitchens for a bite and then to his own private quarters, literally jumping over podlings like they were hurdlers in order to make it time because you just did not trust SkekSil to tell you the truth about the Ornamentalist’s sleeping habits. And then you had waited, breath agitated and painful after flying up the many, many flies of stairs, for him to open his door so you could carry on with whatever mysterious duty the Emperor had assigned you to complete –and you had stood there for at least an hour and a half, your patience waning in inverse proportionality to the daylight that brightened the castle with the other Two Sisters and their sunrise.

When SkekEkt had finally opened the door, he had yawned and waddled to have his breakfast without sparing you a look out of pity.

It did not sit well with you, but you had not expected different from a skeksis. Now, however, you stood up to his rudeness and waited for him to decide what he would do next.

With a defeated hybrid between a shriek and a despondent wail in answer to your own stubbornness, the Lord Ornamentalist finally budged, growling at some podlings to bring him a stepladder, some measuring tapes, a clipboard from where it hung a roll of parchment and some writing implements for the Scientist to note down information.

SkekEkt was touchy and handsy during the whole ordeal, not only in a lewd but also in a painful way, pinching or scrapping you with his long, sharp nails and pressing his many jagged rings against your skin, as petty and vindictive as you believed him to be. You caught him sniffing you every now and then in the absolute opposite manner the Scientist had, rumbling, pulled in instead of grossed out by the lingering scent of your tumble with the Chamberlain. You were sure it was his precarious relationship with SkekSil at the moment, which he valued greatly for the entertainment it brought him, the only thing holding him back from trying to cop a proper feel.

_If he wanted to get truly handsy you were more than willing to introduce his face to the loving touch of your fist, really, it was no trouble at all._

You summitted to his treatment, stiff like a rod and being as cooperative as you could so you did not give him any more reasons to continue his pawing, wondering why today of all times the skeksis seemed so tetchy and, more importantly, so obsessed with your smell. You were not on your period and, for stars’ sake, you had not even cum –it could just not be the Chamberlain’s actions either, you refused to believe that level of spitefulness from the Lords, but you had a feeling your hopes were based on wishes more than on facts. 

And then, done with the torture, the Ornamentalist sauntered away, leaving behind a cloud of elegant perfume and a string of wailed complains, and your attention was finally pulled where you wanted it to be –the Scientist and his atrocious, apocalyptic machine.

Like a pianist tuning his instrument you watched him tinker with some levers, and then dig behind its bulk for a very heavy basket –from it he extracted a chunk of shiny metal that did not look as solid as such material should, and then pushed it through a slot. With another pull, some cylinders you could see from the outside started to turn, the hiss of steam and the roar of gears waking up deafening; you ignored what kind of energy powered the machine, electricity clearly not being it and uncapable of thinking of any other way that would just _start_ that fast, but regardless of that the monster came alive in a brief moment. In a few seconds of agonizing anticipation, the Scientist watching carefully until it started to make the appropriate sounds according to his judgement, you saw the machine spew a thread of something thin, malleable and glossy, and you realised with great surprise the monster, despite the horrible noise and unwelcoming appearance, did nothing more than weave the not-metal for embroidery.

“How much of it do you need?” grunted SkekTek, rolling the fresh thread around a thin, wooden reel as it was produced.

“At last!” The Ornamentalist, who had been running around like a headless chicken, stopped to dump obscene amounts of fabric in your arms and quickly stepped over to the other skeksis, squealing in delight at the sight of the metallic yarn. “Such excellent quality, nothing less than what could be expected for a project of my craftmanship! Three reels at the very least.”

The Scientist pushed another not-solid lump into the machine, chewing complains under his breath.

As if re-ignited by the sight of the bundles, the Ornamentalist returned to you in much better humour, took the fabrics from your arms and, with very little delicacy, started draping them around and over you in a pattern clearly more complex than the simple servant clothes you had been assigned, but not by a lot –the new goods were not too colourful, though a tad brighter and softer, more elegant if you could use the term, than the usual plain beige of coarse wool servants had to dress with. You did not ask Lord SkekEkt anything, his rambling about textures and layers a sea of confusion for you, and you did not want to give him an iota of curiosity after how dismissive and unkind he had been to you, too much even for skeksis standards.

You would not stand a chance in a pettiness contest, but you were willing to try to give him a run for his money regardless.

Noticing your displeasure and willing to take advantage of it, the Ornamentalist pinned things to your robe with surgical precision, always finding a way to needle you despite how good he claimed his skills to be. You, who lived and breathed in constant company of the Chamberlain and to this day had thought him the most testing creature you could ever meet, in this dimension or others, saw the Ornamentalist in a new light that effectively proved your musings wrong.

“…and this,” SkekEkt exclaimed, shoving the shiny reel in your face, the thick pincushion tied to his wrist a hazardous danger that nearly took you eye out had you not anticipated the movement, “will tie it all, my masterpiece, together -stop making that face, you ungrateful beast.”

The Scientist laughed behind you, the sudden, cruel sound making you jump. “It will tie her alright, couldn’t have said that better myself.”

Before you could even think about asking what they meant, the Ornamentalist left your side and found home in a comfortable, plush seat, and pulled at the reel; he clipped it six times, then shoved open a little drawer from where he pulled a long purple laze and proceeded to braid all the parts together in a thick rope, his incredibly long fingers working the materials proficiently without ever tangling the strings. Meanwhile, SkekTek, the reels he had been asked for already weaved, shoved an actual piece of metal in the machine, which made a different whirring than what you had come to hear.

The steam hisses came back full-force, angry, and the machine started clunking violently, the metal inside it chiming with the hammering cries of something shaping it brutally. The Scientist watched the process carefully, at a safe distance in case the strong movements inside the monster encouraged it to waddle on the floor –which it did, the strength behind the hits enormous–, and after an eternity of terrifying enigma, a final spit of steam declared the loud process finished.

“Let’s see, let’s see…” grouched the Scientist, fiddling with some screws and levers; he pulled the right one and a chamber on the side slid open, and he extracted and wonky tray with three garments on it. Roughly shaped, in desperate need of an aggressive sanding to soften all the jaded edges and bumpy bits, rested three massive rings. SkekTek inspected them carefully, twisting them with some sturdy pliers in order to examine all their angles, and checked the paper where he had written down your measures. He nodded to himself and then raised one of the small ones up so you could look at it too. “What say you, human? Do you think this will fit?”

You frowned, “fit, Lord Scientist? Fit what?”

“You! Fit _you_. What kind of creature could you possibly think this is meant for after you were told you were going to get an upgraded wardrove! Honestly, I can hardly believe how someone as dim-witted as you could have survived so long in this-”

You blinked, assessing the piece of metal. It was one of a pair, a finger thick and two fingers wide, of some sort of brassy hue, and with a bit of it bent in a deformed “u” shape once could loop a- You were looking at a _shackle_. On the tray the Scientist held rested its pair and the biggest of the rings, which had to be a collar. Mechanically, you glanced over to what the Ornamentalist was braiding, and you realised he had already roped a good palm of string, sturdy thanks to the metal yarn but flexible due to the fabric –you had seen him deliberately choose the cord, and it hit you how it was purple and braided in such a sophisticated pattern.

A leash in none other than the Emperor’s colours.

You were going to Ha’rar like the pet you so claimed to be, a beast and a trophy for SkekSo to exhibit in front of the gelfling.

You took in this fact with dooming numbness, your fate signed by none other than yourself, and did not even bother to curse the universe for your mighty bad luck.

The morning carried on, and you grew more and more tired the longer you had to stay in the Ornamentalist’s chambers. He had you stand still, your inner robes covered by pounds of fabric pinned down on it so extensively you would get prickled with the smallest shift. From time to time, he would stand from his seat and have you turn around or sideways or do this or that movement to see how the outfit flowed, snickering every time you bit your tongue or tsked when the needles stabbed you. The Scientist, sitting on a stool by his machine as he sanded the collar and shackles, his front covered with a leader apron to protect his robes from the metallic dust, laughed at your misfortune just the same.

You were miserable, your back, after fucking the Chamberlain and then standing straight for literal hours, was starting to cramp painfully under the weight of the fabrics, and you were getting cranky. Yet, you endured, if only to spite your so-called superiors.

The most interesting thing the skeksis Lords did as they worked on their projects was chaffer, evil and hurtful statements about their peers thrown around liberally like one tosses a coin inside a wishing well, and they were at it for such an extensive amount of time they had started to run circles around the same topis –they were very different individuals, SkekEkt and SkekTek, and the subjects they agreed on were few and petty at best. At some point, when they had begun to argue about each other like bitter octogenarians and things were finally getting interesting for you, a podling marched into the chambers, wheeling a dish holder too big for their size, and the conversation and crafting reached a lull so the Lords could have some tea and snacks, which they did not share with you, naturally.

An hour before luncheon another podling rushed in, babbling somewhat pompously and pointing behind them, and a few seconds later the Chamberlain made his appearance inside the Ornamentalist’s chambers.

How very timely.

Without sparing you anything better than a sideways look, the advisor nodded to the exclamations welcoming him in the room, went to fetch a cup of tea right away and sat on a couch, humming news from the Court you knew were not even half of what had ensued during the day. He liked to keep his allies as much on their toes as his enemies and feeding them crumbs was SkekSil’s preferred method of deceiving, which always kept everyone returning for more.

They chatted some more, and then the Ornamentalist pointed a gnarled, sharp finger covered in rings at you like he was flourishing an accusatory blade, his tolerance for your defiance no more now that he had someone he considered could subjugate you. Oh, how would he make you pay for your perverse disobedience!

Victory, in SkekEkt’s eyes, was nigh. “You ought to educate her better, SkekSil, she’s been in an awful behaviour all morning! It’s impossible for me to work in these conditions and the Emperor will be most displeased if her outfit turns out a disaster because I just couldn’t get the appropriate measurements on his beast of a pet! She’s been testing us for so long now! You ought to do something about it.”

Your jaw tensed taut, your anger crisp, but you did not answer the criminations –whatever you had to add, the skeksis would not bother hearing, much more in tune with their own shrills to pay attention to anything an alien had to say.

The Chamberlain examined you slyly, his movements slow, meticulous and theatrical, humming in a mixture of consideration and aloofness, and raised his brows when he saw how your inner robe, basically your underwear, peeked here and there under the layers of fabric piled on your body. His interest picked, you tugged at the revealed fabric, not to hide it but to bring his attention to it even more. Ah, there was the spark of curiosity you were waiting for, his overwhelming need to know the ins and outs of every event taking over whatever scheming he had wanted to trip you into for his sole amusement.

SkekSil answered your mute complains with a coquettish smile, and you gave him a look that spoke volumes of your anger. You did not want or need him to defend your honour like some medieval damsel in distress, far from that; you wanted him to do his job the Emperor had assigned him and make the other Lords stop bullying you into nudity. And here you thought your priorities had been on the same page! His cheekiness was unbelievable.

The Chamberlain, nonplussed by the storm building inside you, was smart enough to add two plus two and join the dots of what had driven you to stand basically bare-assed in the personal chamber of another skeksis; instead of getting confrontational, which you had expected given his unpredictable temper and jealousy, SkekSil chose to hum peacefully and make some more mussing sounds that meant nothing –a loud alarm for some more trickery about to go down.

His sweet, cold green eyes caught yours, which were fuming at his indifference, and then he cocked his head at SkekEkt, sipping his tea merrily, _finally_ giving in to play his role as your chargé. “Why is human naked, hmm? Very inappropriate.” It was not a reprimand at all, his voice and smile full of innocent wonder, “in other occasions, dear friend SkekEkt didn’t need her bare; and he had her sizes already noted, doesn’t he?”

The Lord Ornamentalist raised his pointy head, sniffed the air discreetly, gave you a dooming, dark look, and then fanned his face with a long hand, feigning distress. “I lost those notes, SkekSil, how do you expect me to keep track of them when I have so much to do? I am a busy individual after all.”

“Preposterous!” agreed the Scientist, and you had a feeling he was referring to how the Chamberlain still reeked of you and sex instead of the difficult task of knowing where one left their belongings.

The Chamberlain did not rise to the obvious challenge, the Scientist’s bait so meek and weak it was not worth addressing, and interpellated you by tilting his cup in your general direction, the motion dismissive but willing to indulge you and your irritation. “Human can take fabrics off now, yes?”

“The Lord Ornamentalist has not given me permission to do so, sir,” you answered, and no one but him could hear the outrage in your tone, which made him huff in amusement. How nice that he considered you were being skewed in real time right in front of his beak so he could be entertained. That was what you were, the clown. You knew of someone who was not going to get laid in a while. “I would not dare disobey orders from a Lord of the Crystal.”

SkekSil hummed, and his mirth grew by the second. “Very wise, yes.”

The Ornamentalist rattled his jewels, “I need her to stay like that, how am I supposed to keep the shape of the robes? I don’t have a mannequin that big!”

“Yes, you do,” croaked the Scientist backhandedly, and the Ornamentalist wailed. “You pushed it behind those curtains over there -yes, well, this way you’ll be surely reminded not to insult my creations, considering that’s how you get your precious sewing yarn.”

After much debating and SkekEkt almost lunging to gouge the Scientist’s eyes out, the skeksis resumed their chat, the Ornamentalist finally giving you reluctant permission to take his pinwork off under the condition he could borrow you another day to resume his sewing; the Chamberlain agreed vaguely to the terms, not really listening as he was more focused watching how you fought to get the fabrics off your body without the needles shredding your skin in the process, his eyes affixed in how the thin material of your inner robe pulled and pushed and twisted against your flesh in certain areas.

You noticed his stare, and while it would have been in character to give him a little show now that he was unable to react openly with his brethren in the same room, you were so miffed you just got the deed done, your mood foul and dour.

“Ah, no! Stay right there, where do you think you are going!?” screeched SkekEkt when you left the centre of the chamber, almost spilling his cup of tea in his rush to yell, his gestures wild and erratic.

“To retrieve my clothing, my Lord; it’s inappropriate to stay this underdressed in front of the Lords of the Crystal,” you said, taken aback by the negative, and the Ornamentalist, turning deaf ears to your reasoning, howled at you until you agreed to return to where you had stood all those hours. From there you could see your clothes, close enough and so longingly far you could have reached forward and touched them. You forced yourself not to pout or, what was worse for your physical integrity, scowl. “For how long am I to stay here, my Lord?”

“For as long as I deem appropriate, you have already been conceded too many a favour today. My, SkekSil, how do you even allow her to talk back? She’s so greedy! You baby her too much! Give it a couple of unum and she’ll be asking to eat with us next!”

The Scientist choked on air, cackling. “Imagine her sitting at the table! Not even her knees would fit under it! She would positively crush our chairs!”

The three Lords laughed hard and loudly, uncaring about you literally standing in front of them as they gorged on sweets and curated meats and indulged in petty conversations, the Ornamentalist and Scientist criticising the missing Lords liberally now that they had someone to act as an axis. Meanwhile, the Chamberlain hummed from time to time, careful not to add any commentary and to make noise at certain assessments, busy absorbing all the information and remarks his brethren spewed and storing it in his brain for later use. SkekSil was opportunistic like that. He perused your form between sips of tea, his glances long and scorching, and you saw the hunger in his eyes as he rubbed discreetly at his neck where you had attempted to mark him with unsuccessful love-bites, his tail thumping the ground heavily when you caught his stares or knowing, smug smirks.

As if the room had become a meeting space instead of someone’s private chambers, another podling rushed in at certain point, announcing the arrival of yet another Lord with the same pomp they had the Chamberlain’s. A different, more loaded tray rolled in the Ornamentalist’s quarters, the one behind it pushing it forward none other than the Gourmand himself, who had preened extensively and thoroughly for the day.

“Why the outfit change?” sneered the Scientist, scratching his bad leg as SkekAyuk wobbled in the room, his attention briefly to the Lords in boisterous greetings before his small, beady eyes affixed on you. At the fast action, SkekTek tousled the kerchief he wore around his neck, muttering under his breath like the old, peeved creature he was. “And here I dared hope that banquet would be for us in compensation for our notorious efforts. No one ever appreciates-”

“Quiet now, Scientist! You!” the Gourmand aimed at you with a chubby claw, and you felt a bolt of reluctancy made its way down your back in a shiver, noticing how he paused deliberately to recreate his sight with your scantily dressed form. “My, my, that ought to be an improvement…”

You winced.

SkekAyuk was one of the skeksis you evaded like the plague, his imperious need to offer you food that had been tampered with the main principle behind it. So far, you had succeeded in your escapes, but now he had you cornered and wearing something that would make you have to explain _a lot_ of things were you to cross paths with another skeksis Lord in your hypothetical flight.

Whether you left or you stayed, you were screwed. The only option available was to give him an excuse good enough so he would finally leave you alone. “My Lord-”

“Hush! Are you agreeable at last? You can’t run from me now! Look at this, look at his bountiful feast I’ve brought you. You should be grateful, you lesser creature, that I bother with proper efforts despite how you so rudely avoid me. I’ll have your rejection no more!”

The Ornamentalist howled such a high-pitched sound you were sure the windows should have shattered. He and SkekTek started to immediately argue among themselves and with the Gourmand, their yelling outraged, disbelieving, deafening and absolutely, totally ignored by SkekAyuk, who just stood there clad in his gala robes and waited for you to finally accept his gift.

You realised, your stomach tied in knots, the Gourmand’s insistence of you consuming the food he gave was not a stratagem to poison you like the Emperor had told you.

No, what the Gourmand was doing was _courting_ you.

You blinked, short of breath, and your eyes, before you could control them, flew to see what the Chamberlain was doing –if his possessiveness with the Emperor, delirious as it was, put him in a mood capable of murder, you did not want to see what this open, blatant pursuit could bring. The Gourmand, unlike SkekSo, was an easy target, one who did not bother to mingle with most of the inner plots and scheming in the castle, someone not many skeksis would make a fuss for if something dastardly were to happen to him. You did not care for SkekAyuk the slightest bit, rude as he always was with you, but from not fancying him to allowing his mauling there was a good stretch.

Instead of looking ready to burn the castle down, you found yourself staring at a SkekSil who could barely contain his laughter.

You were so lost.

“How bold!” cooed the Ornamentalist, covering his beak with a frilly handkerchief. If he disagreed with the proclamation or not was truly irrelevant, what he craved, and what he was thoroughly being supplied with, was some good show. At long last something interesting happened in the castle!

“Disgusting!” exclaimed SkekTek, a clear appreciation he would not dare voice when referring to the Chamberlain and his deviancy; it was just his luck SkekAyuk fancied you, it seemed, for him to be able to free his opinion in the open. “That’s bestiality at best!”

“I told you to be quiet already! Enough dillydallying, accept this gift at once and allow yourself to be captivated by my charming self.”

You choked, looking at the cart, and shook your head appalled. “…Thank you, my Lord, but I must apologise. I’m not hungry.”

The skeksis in the room exploded in laughter. You were livid. The Gourmand, for his part, was beyond enraged.

“The nerve-” he spluttered, his face contorting in an ugly mask of fury. “How dare you! How dare you reject me! You frolic and lay with him of all people,” he pointed at the Chamberlain, who was trying not to choke on his tea, his mouth so open in roaring cackles you could see rows after rows of deadly teeth. When he was singled, SkekSil laughed even harder, which only angered the Gourmand further. “And yet you refuse me! Your Lord! Your-!”

A podling tumbled in –it was getting repetitive but damn if you did not welcome them in the room. The Gourmand’s rant stopped, his beak tensed so taut you were sure he was piercing the roof of his mouth, and his eyes burned with the promise of retaliation. Before he could start again, the podling cleared their throat rather self-importantly and gesticulated behind their little body.

“Emperor here!” they cried, bowing so deeply their hat fell to the floor.

The ruckus halted right off, and into the chamber slithered SkekSo, looking regal as ever, followed by the Ritual Master and the General. The Emperor surveyed the room, sniffed in irritatingly at your inappropriate clothing –you shivered but not from the cold, and did your best to cover your body, which was not nearly enough–, and turned his head, slowly, to take in the rest of the scene.

SkekSo saw the dish holder brimming with food, the frenzied Gourmand foaming at the mouth and, caring not a smidge for propriety and some sort of respect he should have for his subjects, he snorted. “And here I wondered whatever could have happened to the members of my Court that they were not attending as they are supposed to be. Is this what you are inclined to in my absence?”

SkekAyuk, considering he was being addressed, growled. “This fiend dares defy a Lord of the Crystal!”

“How is it that a Lord of the Crystal pursues so lowly a being?” retorted the Ritual Master, sneering in disgust. “What have we come to, Thra.”

The Gourmand roared at the insult, his slicked hair and embroidered robes dampening none his bigger body and thick, sharp beak. Considering the Ritual Master’s words not worth responding with the Emperor in the room, he huffed and puffed and looked ready to burst a blood vessel. “My Lord, none other than SkekSil is guilty of such a shameful crime-”

“Do you truly wish to make the Chamberlain’s faults your own, Lord Gourmand?” asked SkekSo graciously, the danger underneath his voice hidden behind the clear amusement in his face. The Emperor looked at you, and his icy inspection kept you rooted to the floor and still, mute, as he walked to the Scientist and picked from the tray the collar that had just been forged. He weighted it and inclined his head towards the floor. “Some work has yet to be done on this, but I believe it shall suffice. Heel.”

“Yes, Lord Emperor.” Feeling too scared to disobey or to pity yourself for the degrading command, you walked and kneeled in front of SkekSo. He handed you the collar and, with your heart heavy like a stone but knowing what was expected of you, your placed it around your neck yourself. It was loose, the hinge that rested against your vertebrae holding no force to keep the collar open or closed –you joined the two ends, the half links where it should connect clinking together and then falling away thanks to gravity.

To solve this menial problem, the Emperor hooked one of his long fingers through it, keeping the collar closed, and pulled up. You followed the motion dutifully, raising your head to face SkekSo but keeping your eyes submissively from his.

“You deny the Gourmand.”

You clenched your fists on your thighs, your nails digging into your palms. You were not dancing to this tune again, you refused to –you knew what you were supposed to say, what he wanted to hear, and you were _not_ repeating your mistakes from the previous day, no siree. “I do, Lord Emperor.”

SkekSo hummed, willing to keep playing with you a bit longer, delighted and satisfied with your docility. He tugged, forcing your neck to crank up painfully, and he fought a thrill at your absolute reverence, not a single spark of defiance anywhere to be found in your eyes, your behaviour impeccable. “As bold –or stupid–, as such rejection is, there must be a reason for it, isn’t that right? I would hate to think you are in need of some _education_.”

You heard a thrill coming from where Lord SkekZok stood, and your eyes pooled in fear. _No, you did not want that._

You spoke slowly, your voice fearful yet steady. “He cannot have me, my Lord, for I am yours alone. Your pet. I am not myself to give.”

There was no point in mentioning your private activities with the Chamberlain, a well-known secret, SkekSil’s shame to bear; proclaiming other skeksis wanted you, whatever reasons were behind their claims, it was as futile as it was disgraceful and thus, those who had witnessed SkekAyuk declare his desire for your favour remained silent, scandalized at how he had been not only willing to take you, to defy the Emperor’s right hand, but to also do it formally, with gifts and proper courting. It was inconceivable, heinous, a public announcement of one’s infamy!

Who would dare want and trumpet their cravings for a lowly tool such as yourself?

Hence the Gourmand backpedalled, voiceless, raging but tempered, understanding the gravity of his doings. He should had been smarter, shouldn’t he? Catch you alone, bribe you away, seduce you in private… You were so skittish, so cautious in your walks through the castle but alas, he should had risked his chance!

Now, there was a collar around your neck and the ruler of Thra held the leash, he had you kneeling in front of him like a stringless puppet, the metaphor not that but a loud declaration of ownership and power.

SkekSo nodded to your words solemnly, patted your head and freed you from his grasp. “Good girl.”

As if his goal in the room had been at last completed, his search for his brethren and subjects finished, he straightened up and rearranged his long, bejewelled, luxurious robes distractedly, not because they were dishevelled but to put an end to the scene.

He then cleared his throat. “If _this_ is what is keeping you lot so agitated, let me acknowledge the situation as solved. Let us not have such disarray transpire yet again, shall we? We Lords of the Crystal must occupy our leisure time more constructively, as it’s proper to our station.”

Not a single skeksis dared nod to his statement, not wanting to out themselves and their hidden cravings. Most of those who received a punishing sneer from the Ritual Master took the hint. The rest were either too prideful to be count themselves as the addressed or just thought themselves above the scolding.

Either way, the message had been delivered.

Satisfied with the lack of answers, SkekSo sighed in contempt and left the Ornamentalist’s chamber, the Ritual Master and the General sending each other glares full of meaning and unsaid words. They followed the Emperor disgruntledly, not wanting anything to do with the mess that was left behind.

* * *

SkekSil watched you like a hawk, his figure half hidden from your sight as you rested on his bed, the canopy and curtains draped over the posts assisting his discreet lurking. He liked to catch you unaware, when you dared be the most yourself you could be in such a dangerous world; your defencelessness gave him clues of what made you tick, of your inner emotions you were too intelligent and wary to let show when he was openly in your company. He was not one for hunting, not in the literal sense of the word, but these occasions were just as good as to bask in a little in his wildest, most violent side, even if only inside his mind –where those thoughts would remain, as you were much more useful to him alive and breathing.

For better or worse, you had learnt from him to be suspicious and guarded against others’ intentions, perfectly behaved in public and dedicated to the pleasure of your Lords so inconspicuously it was a pleasure to see you weave your own web of little lies. There was no way you could surpass his superior talent in pretending, though. SkekSil was a good stalker, and he was even better at deciphering what others wanted.

After so long of watching you, you had become an open book for him to peruse, your emotions the most engaging content for him to browse.

In your hands, lying lax like an omen damnation, was the brass collar the Scientist’s machine had forged, hefty and solid. Your face was turned in its direction, but your eyes were lost in a mile-yard stare, your brain thinking so hard the skeksis could hear the storm inside it from where he stood. Sometimes you were so distracted you forgot to mask your turmoil, but SkekSil was not going to be the one to remind you of caution when he could play it to his advantage.

It was rather funny how a piece of metal could cause you so much despair.

He had known, of course, you would not be allowed to exit the castle properly chained, the risk of losing such an exotic asset for the regal Court one the Emperor had not wanted to take. Never mind that, SkekSil knew you suspected him to be behind such condition. This time, your guessing would be wrong, the request voiced by the General and seconded by the Ritual Master the previous day before you were summoned in the bathing room.

Still, SkekSil was not the least opposed to it.

A collar was not only symbolic, neither was it only a physical mean to keep you trapped –it could be used to keep you from drifting too far into the clouds of freedom, and that train of thought he liked very much. Why give you a chance to dream of a life beyond the castle, away from the skeksis, _far from his grasp_ , when a simple implement could be the key to keep those dangerous musings from manifesting in your mind? Is a slave truly one if they do not know about their condition?

The answer would be “yes”, naturally, but such philosophy the Chamberlain did not bother to dawdle in. Moral conundrums were a waste of time, in his humble opinion.

Your loyalty, SkekSil knew, was his to bask in, no matter the words you praised the Emperor with. SkekSo had your obedience because of the fear he inspired you, but he had done nothing of worth to earn it. He, SkekSil, could give you the most beautiful cage, forged in gold and silver and so wide you would not see bars, so comfortable you would not bother to try and find them, and you would sing for him the most alluring songs, hissing your lovely lies to others as you surrendered your devotion to him alone.

A collar and some devoted words in front of a ravenous crowd hungry for blood could not change that.

You were upset, he could tell. You had walked into a trap of your own making, your servitude shackles you had clicked shut around your wrists, your freedom the key you had tossed away the very moment you had vowed yourself to the Lords of the Crystal. Until now, those chains had been weightless and invisible, a condemnation you had not truly experienced because you had never felt the need for it.

Until this day.

Like a wingless bird who glances for the first time at the sky, your actions kept you grounded, not because you longed to fly, but because you had discovered you would never be able to even if you wanted to. There was not a soul to blame for the impossibility but you, and the irony of that was deliciously sweet.

Naturally, you could, and very probably did, blame the Chamberlain for keeping you captive on the ground, but SkekSil had spent too much time in your company to know that was a fleeting thought in your mind –you knew for a fact he was not to be trusted, his good nature towards you merely a good ready to be exploited. If the trap had been his, you could fault no one but yourself for falling in it. You should know better by now.

Still, you asked him, and SkekSil left the shadows that cloaked his bulky form when your voice carried his title. “Was a collar necessary?”

“Not Chamberlain’s idea,” he shrugged, waddling towards where you sat. “I blame General. There’s a very old law about bringing pets to castles and ceremonies. Centuries old. SkekVar could have not discovered it himself, Ritual Master and Scroll Keeper probably assisted him. SkekOk is very happy to travel at last.”

You cared little about whatever made the Scroll Keeper happy, and it showed –oh, how le loved it when you shed your mask and let those ugly emotions out. Cynical people were his favourite, they were so very entertaining to play with. SkekSil cheered on the inside, congratulating himself and his good decision when he advised the Emperor to keep you instead of terminating you like others had suggested. His joy since you joined the castle inhabitants had become endless.

Even now, tired as you were, there was a little flame ready to be snuffed out in your eyes. Resigned, but not by much –you had wisely learnt when to pick your battles. He loved to meet resistance, and he loved defeating it even more, seeing those who opposed him abandon such efforts to bow down to his will. You were yet to let him down.

“You knew about this,” you huffed, raising the collar. The hinge at the back whined and the loose extremes clacked with the movement, and you sent the object a rancorous side-glare. “And about the leash, I am to guess.”

“Hmm, yes.”

You did not sigh, neither shook your head, nor gave any indication of your anger for a moment. So very smart you were, surrendering to things you knew you could not control –yes, why waste the energy, why not redirect it to something more useful and… Then, your lips curled up and your eyes overflowed with hate. Perhaps you were not _that_ smart after all. “I am not a _dog._ ”

The Chamberlain snickered. “Chamberlain doesn’t know what a dog is.”

Your shoulders sagged, and your knuckles turned white around the collar, your grip punishing. When you spoke, he could tell you were biting your tongue so hard he could have probably sniffed the blood in the air. You, on the other hand, were no having as much fun as he did. “A pet.”

Well, SkekSil had to make a very notorious effort not to snort. Oh, the irony. “Then, human _is_ a dog.”

“Not funny,” you sneered.

His words had upset you, and before you could chuck the collar away in a fit of rage, something that could not be afforded to happen, the Chamberlin took it from you, forcing his amusement down to inspect the garment in detail. Might as well take a good look at the cause of your distress, at the thing that seemed key in whatever machinations the General and the Ritual Master were busy with. What was the fuss, hm?

It was just a chunk of metal hammered flat. There was no filigrees or jewels or chants for luck or strength, wealth or health engraved on its surface. Quite a tasteless addition to your wardrobe, in truth. SkekTek had sanded the bottom profile expertly in a curve so it followed the lines of your body, minimizing the uncomfortable friction some real punishment collar would cause. Still, despite looking shiny and finished, it was a heavy and crude implement, and unless the Ornamentalist bothered to pad it, you would end up with marks around your neck if you wore it for too long.

That would not do.

SkekSil liked marks of ownership as much as the next skeksis, but only if he did them himself. Where was the satisfaction of getting somewhere just to find something else had done his job already? Nuh huh, he liked your skin unblemished so he could ruin it himself, thank you very much. He would have to talk with SkekEkt, it was about time he redeemed himself, was it not?

Finally, a good chance to be compensated for how rudely the Ornamentalist had kept the Ritual Master’s secrets from him. He would had remained none the wiser had it not been for you telling on the religious skeksis… Yes, you were a good addition to the help in the castle indeed.

“Wear it for Chamberlain?” he asked sweetly.

“I already wore it today, sir.”

“Please?”

You were quite unhappy with the petition, your face going pink in anger, your eyes squinting into slits. Still, SkekSil’s determination did not waver, nor did he take his words back, and you plucked the offending garment from his hands and settled it around your neck as you had done for SkekSo, your body language tense and aggressive. The Chamberlain did not slide a finger through the hooks to close it but grabbed the two ends and lifted it –the gesture took the weight of the metal from your neck and shoulders and allowed him to manoeuvrer it without the collar scrapping your skin or hitting your jaw. Under your scrutiny, he sniffed disagreeably at the object and tossed it to the cushion mountain you sometimes slept in.

Your face told him you agreed with his action. “It’s a hateful thing.”

The Chamberlain shared the same sentiment, but, as always, his assessment went deeper than an offending chide born out of spite. Just because the collar you had received was a sparkly piece of useless, uncomfortable junk did not mean the idea of having you wear such an item had not suited his tastes. Quite the contrary, in fact.

SkekSil gave you a look you recognized immediately. You frowned and his saucy eyes, but he was not deterred. “Soft leather would be better.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I thought you didn’t agree with me being collared like an animal, Chamberlain.”

“Not in public, not with chains. So very tacky, so tasteless, so _crude_.” He thumbed the neck of your robes and skimmed a claw over your skin, raising goosebumps in his wake. Yes, leaving raw marks on you was so much more enjoyable. A purr rose from inside his chest, his mouth watering at the mental image, the never-ending possibilities. “Not metal, hmm, but perhaps lace, or velvet, or gold…”

The thought definitely awoke something inside him, and he imagined you on your knees, as you always were in front of the Emperor, your skin exposed there where jewels and chains could not hide it from his eyes –he could rip all those decorations off you, tear the lacework with his claws and eat you all up like you were a gift wrapped up for his sole enjoyment. Thra, _those_ were some happy thought’s right there. He made a mental note about it.

You had a different opinion in the matter, unfortunately.

Snorting at the moan he had choked in his throat and pushing his hand from your jaw, you were ready to dump a bucket on his passionate fantasies. Perhaps he was as transparent as you were, in the end. “Food for thought, my Lord.”

Cheeky little thing you were, talking back to him with that sly smile. That would just not do.

The Chamberlain let you go, not seeing a reason to press the issue when you were in such a strange mood –you would just refuse to budge regardless of any idea he presented you, playful and coy as your eyes glinted. You liked to tease him, to place what he wanted, what you could give him, just right out his reach; most of the time he had fun indulging in your fantasies of power, playing the lenient lover role so you would satisfy his cravings -and, oh, how you did. SkekSil had no problems giving in a little as long as he got what he desired in the end, and he always did.

Now, he could tell you were just humouring him, not truly listening to his suggestions. Any other day, he could make you listen, he had his ways… But had his appetite not been met for the day? Had you not been pushed far enough already?

What would make you break?

_He wanted to know, he wanted to know so badly._

But he was better than that. He was smart. You were much more valuable in one piece, so much more consequential, than just the brief rush of seeing you crack.

Rather than test the limits of your patience, which were not as unreachable as he had believed them to be many unum ago, when you would bend backwards to meet his every need, he preferred to give you some berth to calm down and breathe –sometimes one could to push, some others it was wiser to pull and fall back to gain a better, wider picture, and inspect what he was dealing with. 

You were exhausted, you were peeved, your body slouching tiredly, and you seemed to lack the tolerance for very obvious mind-games. SkekSil could understand that; he would accommodate your languor alright; _discreet_ mind-games it was, then.

You disrobed and sighed and rolled your eyes when he decided to shamelessly grope your bottom, but did not complain –you could ignore him, alright, but for how long? Challenged, the Chamberlain dragged a single claw down the slope of your back, purring with gusto even when you left him and when to bury yourself in his bed –you were so _soft_ , your skin and flesh so pliant and warm and welcoming. He wanted to devour you whole, to squish you and pin you down and drown his tongue with the taste of your submission, deafen his ears with the sound of your voice, numb his brain with your sweet pleas and your calls for mercy.

How incapable was SkekZok, was he not, that he could only make you beg for respite out of pain, that he could only take pleasure from you with force –SkekSil was much more adept in other areas, limitless in his talents and a master in persuasion. He could take from you just fine, but where was the joy in that? It was so, so much better to have you surrender willingly, to have you _want_ to serve him.

He felt his cocks throb inside him, already engorging with blood, and the Chamberlain got rid of his own robes and followed you under the sheets, drooling at the mouth at the thought of shoving his tongue between your thighs as far as it would go and coating his fangs with your arousal. However, when he tried to slide down on your warm body, his palms were met with a strange sensation –you were soft but there was these little... what were- There were many of them, tiny, almost imperceptible, and they smelled of blood and-

“Scabs,” you huffed, and pushed his calloused hands from your stomach. “The Lord Ornamentalist made sure to allow me the chance to acknowledge how good he is at needling.”

Hmm. Not ideal.

It made sense, SkekSil agreed with your conclusion, and SkekEkt had been quite vexed with you today. A pinprick would only leave a droplet of blood, they were wounds small enough most of them would heal in the day, and it was not like the Lords of the Crystal would care if one of them had decided to fuck with you as long as his damage was somewhere it would not bother the delicate sight of the Emperor.

Not even SkekSil cared, truth be told, even if he was the one you would say you were closest with.

Still, beyond your well-being, the Ornamentalist had not only left marks on skin that was only SkekSil’s to lavish, but he had also put you in a mood bad enough he could tell you were likely to kick him right in the beak if he tried to go down on you.

Gritting his teeth, the Chamberlain hummed and rolled off you and your sore body so you would curl around him –cockblocked by his own brethren even when they were not in the room.

_Unbelievable._

He would have to have a little, friendly chat with SkekEkt, and the Ornamentalist better sew you something that made you want to suck him off in the spot or they were going to have a problem.

You wrapped around him, moulding your body to his own, careful not to harm your chest with the quills on his back, and fussed around until his tail could slide between your thighs comfortably. You fell asleep in moments, your arms curled around his torso to keep him close, craving the coldness from his tough skin as much as he desired the warmth from yours, and SkekSil grumbled to himself, the gears in his mind turning relentlessly.

First the collars, now a dry spell. Being the Chamberlain was hard work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What now? huh?  
> Is the next chapter the trip to Ha'rar or is there even more plot in the way?  
> Also, can you keep track of how many open plots are now? There's the Emperor's lying about the Gourmand's true intentions, the Ritual Master + the General's, SkekSil's....  
> Does the Ornamentalist have one of his own? Also where's SkekOk, other than maybe prepping his luggage for the oncoming trip?
> 
> And, and I should really ask but I'm going to anyway, who of you Readers welcome the idea of a collar for the Chamberlain to enjoy? I wanna know for reasons... 👀
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'll see you in the next update!

**Author's Note:**

> I love to hear your thoughts about my writing so please comment if you'd like!  
> What do you think the Chamberlain will do to solve the pickle he had cornered himself into?  
> Why is the General so whiny?  
> How successful can a rebellion against SkekSil actually be?  
> If you have theories, share then with me!


End file.
